He Who Makes a Beast Out of Himself
by CrimsonEnigma
Summary: Haytham spent his life steeped in blood and deceit. It would be easy to lose his humanity-to become a proverbial monster. But once a man becomes a beast, there is no return. A companion fic to Thicker Than Water regarding Haytham's struggles with his past relationships. M/M; Multiple pairings; Rated M for sexual content, violence, non-con, etc. See chapter-specific warnings within
1. Reginald Birch

**Crimmy Comments:** Welcome readers! Although this fic is meant to divulge Haytham's past relationships for my other AC3 fic, Thicker Than Water, **it can be read alone**!

But please be forewarned; this fic, particularly the first chapter, is very smutty and can be triggery. This first chapter is the most violent and explicit of the lot.

While I respect that the contents herein will not appeal to everyone, please respect me by kindly not reading it if it offends you. Flamers will be thanked for their contributions and then promptly forgotten.

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**_Chapter specific pairings:_** Reginald Birch/Haytham Kenway; John Harrison/Haytham Kenway/Templar Officer OC

**_Chapter specific warnings:_** Dub-con, Non-con, Mentions of statutory rape, Mentions of underage abuse, Double penetration, Blowjobs, Violence, Threesome, and Anal

_**Enjoy!**_

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_"He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." –Hunter S. Thompson_

**Ch. 1**

**Reginald Birch**

Haytham didn't know exactly when it started.

He knew that he had been young and his body had been in the deepest stages of puberty. Possibly he had been 12? 13? Yes, that sounded right. His voice was cracking and hair had begun sprouting in places that it had no business existing. His new growth spurts had proved irritating, turning his most graceful counterattacks and movements into blundering stumbles and foolishness. He had been but a boy. It had been a few days after his birthday that initiated him fully into teenager-hood. He had turned the big 13 years of age and his boyish chest puffed as he made the hurdle one step closer to becoming a man. That was when Birch had first… It was when he had turned Haytham's childhood path down a rocky road of deceit and uncertainty for the second time.

Haytham had been frightened by the wandering hands and the harsh, whispered sweet nothings. Birch had taken him in, had trained him, had educated and all but accepted the task of raising Haytham. And now, he was doing something that Haytham was certain that no adult should do to a child. But what could Haytham do? He felt helpless under the weight of the man above him, who gave breathless, slobbery apologies. Haytham knew how to fight and how to kill, but how could he lash out against Birch? A part of Haytham loved Birch too fully and unconditionally to push him away, even though he knew that this was wrong.

So Haytham accepted the situation.

As the years wore by, it didn't hurt as much, physically or otherwise. It became as close to normal as it could be for them. In the daylight, Reginald Birch was a caring, but demanding, mentor and guardian. But at night, he became something else, something that only Haytham was privy to witness. At times, his own acceptance of the strange, utterly wrong situation startled Haytham. Other times, it sickened him. And sometimes, it comforted him. Even if no one else in the world could love him, then Haytham at least knew he had Birch's feelings to himself. Reginald had told him as much; he whispered his sweet poison in Haytham's ear, he let him know that no one else could possibly love a child so damaged—no one else but him.

When they finally settled down at the chateau in France, Haytham was frightened that the whole staff would know of his and Birch's strange relationship. But if they did know, then they said nothing. Haytham knew that at least some of them had heard his desperate cries during the night, as Birch fucked him ruthlessly into the mattress. They _must_ have. And yet still…they said nothing.

Haytham grew older and his body filled and finally reached full manhood. He made his first official assassination and was rewarded with a particularly satisfying fuck. He was old enough now to where he could even dare think of himself and Birch as lovers. They could talk for hours on end, discussing politics and Templar plans. They could train until they were both sweaty and fatigued. And they could whisper to each other in the dark, where no one could hear them beneath the blankets. Haytham could dare say that they were lovers.

But he soon found that perception was wrong. It was only an illusion.

"Haytham, so glad that you could make it!" Birch greeted from a chair in his study, setting down his half drained glass of wine. Haytham surveyed the room. He had received a letter that morning firmly instructing him to meet with Reginald Birch at 8pm. Normally, such letters meant that they were to lie together, and that Haytham should prepare and lubricate himself in advance. But this time, Birch was not alone. There were two gentlemen seated in their respective chairs by the fire, each with wine in his hand.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I didn't know that we were expecting company. My apologies for my lack of manners. I am Haytham Kenway," Haytham forced himself into an immediate calm and set his hat on the end table. Birch had probably meant to introduce Haytham to more Templars and speak of plans and assassinations. It was an honest mistake to read too deeply between the lines of the simple letter. After all, he had just uncovered Jack Digweed's location the day before and had finally talked Birch into joining him on the journey. Birch probably needed someone to look after his assets while he was away and thus, these gentlemen were possibly the candidates. That was likely all. Yes, that was all.

"Oh nonsense, Haytham! Your manners are impeccable as always! Now where were we, oh yes! Haytham, I've told you about John Harrison before, yes? John, meet Haytham," Birch motioned from a fellow with dark hair to his protégé. "Ah yes, and this is Harold Smith!" Another motion from the other man to Haytham.

Harrison eyed him hungrily and Haytham found himself immediately disliking the man.

"Aye, is he every bit the fightin' dog you claim, Birch? He does look the part," Harrison drained his wine and Haytham found himself straightening his back, as if to make a point. Yes, he was a good fighter. And to know that Birch spoke highly of him filled him with a blossom of pride.

"Of course. As soon as an enemy lets Haytham get the upper hand, then the poor fool's as good as dead!" Birch praised, much to Haytham's thrill. "But you should be able to handle him. He's obedient when the correct…pressure is applied."

Haytham's stomach sank just a bit. Perhaps Birch was going to have him work with other Templars for a while? That was plausible, but something about the way that his mentor said those words made Haytham's skin crawl.

"Boy, you should sit while in the presence of the Grandmaster," Harold Smith, a man with shaggy blond hair and too few teeth, urged. It was a strange request, considering that there were no more chairs in the study to sit upon.

"No thank you, I think that I'll stand," Haytham made a conscious effort not to fidget. He had to prove that Birch's opinion of his strength was true. And his instincts told him that he would soon be tested.

"Sir, what would you have me do?" Haytham asked Reginald Birch.

Birch picked up his glass of wine once more and swirled the blood red contents with a smooth appreciation. He sipped it, drew it from his lips, and grinned something awful.

"Obey."

Haytham's brows furrowed and he felt his body tense in retaliation. John Harrison and Harold Smith stood and moved silently towards Haytham. "I don't understand, Sir," Haytham protested calmly, wishing at once that he hadn't left his short sword in his quarters. Harrison and Smith were both behind him. He could smell the wine.

"I told you to obey, Haytham. Now do not embarrass me, not in front of my friends," Birch commanded, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument.

Haytham's heart was hammering in his chest. He had a fleeting certainty that the men behind him could hear it, that they could feel it. "What is the meaning of this?" he snarled between gritted teeth, his hands clenching and his knees softening in preparation to defend himself.

"The meaning, Haytham?" Birch finished his glass of wine and stood only to refill it. "The meaning is that you obey me. I want you to do whatever these men want of you. And I want to watch. That's the meaning, Haytham. I ask for your complete and total obedience, nothing more and nothing less."

"Now," Birch sat again, adjusting himself so that he could see everything before him. "Kneel."

Haytham's heart stopped. He could swear that it must have stopped because he had the awful realization of what was happening, of what Birch wanted out of him. It must be punishment for seeking out Digweed without consulting the Grandmaster first. It had to be. He pulled his lips back into a snarl.

"No."

Haytham spun around, fist flying at Smith's ribs. They connected with a soft huff of air and Haytham ducked the punch from Harrison. He threw himself forward with a roar, tackling Harrison to the floor and pressing a knee into his abdomen. Rolling to the side, he quickly stood and raised his forearms in time to block a hit from the blond man. The three men grappled for a few more heartbeats before Birch cleared his throat none-too-discreetly.

"HAYTHAM KENWAY! CEASE THIS FOOLISHNESS!" he bellowed as he rose from the chair. Haytham hesitated, only for a moment. But that moment was all Harrison needed to kick the back of Haytham's knees. The young man crumpled to the floor.

"I have fed you, I have sheltered you, I have loved you and raised you and provided everything that you have ever needed and THIS is how your repay me!" Birch didn't need to stomp or storm about. The soft footfalls sounded like thunder to Haytham's ears as his mentor paced in front of him. "You have wanted for nothing! And THIS is how you throw my generosity to the wind! You clearly, blatantly disobey me in front of other Templars!"

Birch crouched to grasp Haytham's jaw, forcing him to look up at his furious mentor. "Who am I, Haytham Kenway? TELL ME!"

Haytham felt a tremble of fear shake his frame. It was small, almost imperceptible, but Birch would know. "You are the Grandmaster of the British Rite," he responded the best he could with his jaw in a vice grip.

"And what does a good little Templar do when the Grandmaster gives him direct orders?!"

Haytham swallowed, his gaze falling away from Birch's watery gray eyes. "He obeys."

"And what will you do you for me, Haytham?" Birch continued, his voice hardly above a whisper. "After all I have given you, after all that I have sacrificed for you, what will you do for me?"

This was wrong. Haytham knew that this was wrong and yet his mind only created escape plans with naught but dead ends. Birch had killed more men than Haytham could imagine. He could just as easily snap Haytham's neck and be done with his impudence. Or even if Haytham somehow did get past Birch, he still had the other two Templars in the room to contend with. They were good fighters. They were strong. Haytham had never felt so trapped in his life.

"…I will obey you," Haytham finally conceded, his eyes closing in defeat.

Birch smiled. "Good. You are a good boy, Haytham." He finally released his pupil's jaw and sauntered back to his easy chair. Once nestled into the soft warmth, Birch took up his wine glass once more. "Now Haytham, first I want you to pleasure these men. With your mouth."

Haytham's breath hitched in his throat and he felt stomach acid rising to his mouth at the idea of placing his mouth on another man's dick. It was one thing to suck Birch off, it was another to please a stranger. Harrison circled around Haytham, his breeches already undone.

"Well go on, boy. And don't you dare think of biting. I'll cut out that sassy tongue of yours if I so much think that you're getting too many ideas," Harrison growled, pulling his half hard cock out of his trousers.

Haytham swallowed acid back yet again and took a deep breath. If he refused, then he was certain that they would find a way to force him anyways. He just needed to play along. Perhaps this was some sort of test, some sort of awful, horrible test.

Haytham took Harrison's cock into his hands and stroked.

Harrison hissed quietly, his fingers kneading into Haytham's scalp. If he was trying to be reassuring, the attempt was laughable. But Haytham still pumped the elder man's dick, working it into full erection. "With your mouth," Harrison growled, pushing against the back of Haytham's head to spur him into action. Haytham grunted angrily and withdrew his hand for a moment to spit on his palm. He returned his grasp to the shaft in front of him and stroked until Harrison's cock glistened. Harrison pushed against the back of his head again, harder this time. His cock rubbed against Haytham's cheek, smearing some of the precum and saliva. Another shove, and this time Haytham finally opened his jaws and took the tip of Harrison's penis into his mouth.

The young Templar ignored the sour taste and focused on the job at hand. The sooner that he could get these men off, then the sooner he would be left alone and all debts to Birch would be paid. He could leave the chateau. He could run away. But for now, he just needed to get through this. He could do it. He was strong and had been through worse. He could do this.

Harrison gripped onto Haytham's hair almost painfully as he snapped his hips against his face. Haytham's eyebrows screwed in concentration as he relaxed his throat to accommodate Harrison's full length. Just when he was certain that Harrison would come, the elder Templar withdrew his dick from Haytham's swollen lips. A thin string of saliva followed the motion until it snapped.

"Come on, you can't just be spoiling John," Harold Smith said, pressing the head of his weeping dick against Haytham's cheek. "You need to be pleasing both of us. Don't forget that, boy."

Haytham glared at the blond man, who responded in turn by slapping his cock against Haytham's face.

"Keep them eyes to yourself, boy. I've never heard of a blind Templar doing much good for the order," Smith threatened.

Haytham growled inwardly, rage and indignation tightening in his chest. He took one dick in each hand and stroked them both. His tongue lathed one cock, then the other, moving back and forth fluidly.

It wasn't until he had Harrison's cock in his mouth that he knew that the man was on the edge. He gripped Haytham's skull again and ruthlessly thrust into his mouth. Haytham gripped tightly to the man's hips, trying to just focus on breathing, when he felt the hot seed spill down his throat. He coughed around Harrison's dick as the elder Templar rode out his orgasm. When Harrison pulled away, Haytham was certain that he was going to vomit. His stomach churned like an ocean wave and he fought to just breathe. Smith insisted that Haytham finish the job before catching his breath, however. Haytham did as he was instructed and sucked the blond Templar to completion. However, rather than ejaculating in Haytham's aching mouth, Smith pulled back at the last moment and came on Haytham's face. The thick semen dripped down his cheek and from his eyelashes. He grimaced in disgust, fished a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped it away.

The two Templars pulled back, sated and rubbing Haytham's scalp as if he were a good dog. A slow clap came from the easy chair that Birch sat upon. He rubbed the sporting bulge between his legs and readjusted.

"Yes, that was a good show. At least, for the opening act," Birch grinned. Haytham felt his heart sink further and he stood in protest.

"That is enough. This sort of conduct violates Templar codes. It is the sort of behavior reserved for beasts, at best," Haytham snarled, throwing the dirtied handkerchief to the floor. It fluttered to the nice rug, dirty side down.

Birch's eye twitched a little as his rug was defiled. His cold, gray eyes shifted up until he stared at Haytham. "And what do you know of Templar codes, hm? You speak as if you know the ways of the world, but you are ignorant. You're only a child, barely a month past 21, who has been sheltered and cared for his whole life. You know nothing, boy. This world is not fair. It is not just. And for you to expect it forthwith is laughable at best."

Birch motioned to the two other Templars again. They closed around Haytham, making him feel more claustrophobic than ever before.

"Men need to be controlled. They yearn to be controlled, Haytham. You know this! You know that control is the only way to achieve peace in this world."

"But not like this," Haytham gritted out from between his teeth, eyes darting from one enemy to the next. "Templars must be nobler than this."

"Ideally, yes. But not everyone will respond to the same methods of control. For the more…rebellious type, we must take extreme measures. We must ensure complete obedience, even if we make monsters out of ourselves."

"Templars are not villains!"

"Oh Haytham, how young and naïve you still are. Assassins and Templars…" Birch took another drink of his wine and stood. He turned his back to them and pulled open a drawer in a nearby bookcase. "We are all villains."

Haytham felt his voice catch in his throat. He had sparred against the other swordsmen of the chateau. He had won every encounter. The only man he ever lost to was Birch, in both sword and words. And now, he could not fight back the searing burn of defeat. He could not win this encounter.

He glared at the other Templars. They were older, stronger, and more seasoned than Haytham. But Haytham was younger and faster. He could use that to his advantage. Birch may have defeated him, but he would not fall so easily to these arrogant hypocrites.

"Since our guest is proving more willful than we thought, I don't believe that he'll be disrobing himself voluntarily," Birch said whilst digging through a drawer that held the 'playthings' he would use with his young pupil. "John, Harold; undress him. Do as you will, just don't break his body. We need to ride out in the morning."

Haytham didn't waste another second. He ducked to the side and swept up behind Harold Smith to deliver a hard punch to his kidney. Smith gasped and elbowed the place where Haytham had been. Haytham gave a good, hard whack to the back of Smith's neck, hoping to knock him out with the blow. Smith crumpled to the ground with a shout of pain, but he was not unconscious.

Harrison dove at Haytham, a short knife unsheathed and ready to strike. Haytham caught the Templar's wrist and wrestled it.

"You won't be so high and mighty when we mess up that pretty face of yours," Harrison sneered, regardless of Birch's warning to not cause permanent physical damage. He shoved Haytham against the heavy oak door to the study, rancid breath hot against the younger Templar's face. Haytham gave a shout of fury and thrust his knee hard into Harrison's groin. Harrison's face purpled immediately and he turned to the side, allowing Haytham to stumble away from the door. However, he grabbed the back of Haytham's frock coat and wrenched it from his shoulders.

Haytham twisted as his arms were caught behind his back. He tried to finish pulling his coat off when a heavy blow hit the side of his head, making him reel. Smith coupled his fists together and hit Haytham again, sending the young Templar to his knees.

Haytham's vision swam as he felt the buttons on his waistcoat pop off and his undershirt was sliced down the middle. The room was spinning and his fingers felt tingly and numb.

"I said to undress him, not concuss him!" Birch snapped; his voice sounded like it was underwater. Haytham distantly realized that he would have quite the goose egg on his head once this was said and done.

He could feel cold air on his legs as his boots and breeches were stripped away. Panic snapped him away from his daze and he struggled, kicking and squirming as the two Templars tried to pin him down. Finally, his arms were free of his coat and clothing. He fought for control, trying to push the Templars, or hit them or smack them or scratch them, anything! He struggled like a wild animal caught in a snare, curses flying like growls from his lips.

But Haytham was flipped onto his belly and his arms were wrenched behind his back. A rope bound his wrists together. A disgusted sneer pulled on Haytham's lips. It was the same linen rope that Birch would use on his pupil when they were feeling rambunctious. The irony was not lost on him.

"Reginald!" Haytham roared into the rug. "Reginald! Cease this madness! You have made your point!"

Haytham received no response from his mentor. Only the hissing whisper of Harold Smith replied, "No, I don't think that he has yet, Princess. You're too wily for your own good. You need to be taught a lesson in obedience."

Haytham snarled and Smith looped the young Templar's discarded cravat around his mouth. He pulled it between Haytham's teeth and tied it taut behind his head. Smith grinned at his handiwork and pressed the side of Haytham's head into the rug again. He leaned half of his weight onto the young Templar's upper back, making it hard to breathe and struggle at once. Harrison gripped Haytham's hips and raised them until he was on his knees and his back was bowed painfully.

Haytham screwed up his face and tried to twist away as he felt cold, oily fingers rub against the cleft of his ass. This was happening. This was really happening. He was really going to be raped and there was nothing that he could do about it. The one person he might have relied on to save him sat in a plush chair across the room, a glass of wine in one hand and his cock in the other. Haytham was alone. He shouted into the carpet as one digit shoved inside of him.

"Now, now, boy. Don't be so tense. You'll only hurt yourself," Harrison chided mockingly as he moved his finger in and out of Haytham's body.

"Ha, you'd think with how often Grandmaster Birch fucks him, that he'd be a little looser! Innit right, Princess? You got all spoiled with the Grandmaster's cock that now you can't stand another?" Smith gave a sharp smack to Haytham's rear.

"And it looks like he even fasted and prepared himself for our special occasion! Little bitch was probably looking forward to getting his ass pounded tonight. He just didn't know by whom!" Harrison chuckled darkly, adding a second, then a third finger in rapid succession.

Haytham growled around the makeshift gag in his mouth, feeling his cheeks redden with embarrassment and rage. Horror wrestled in his gut alongside the shame and fury. It made him want to vomit, but with a gag in his mouth, he was bound to choke. Even though this was a wretched situation, Haytham still had no intention of dying. He would make these men suffer. He swore it to himself that one day, he would kill them both. It would go against their code to kill a brother in arms, but Haytham could make it look like it was an accident. Or else he could make it look like an enemy. Regardless, he could and would kill them. And as for Birch…

Haytham's body jerked as he felt the tip of Harrison's cock press against his ass. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, wishing beyond wishes that this horrific nightmare would end there. But no. Haytham was not so lucky. Harrison pushed inside of his reluctant body with a satisfied groan. Haytham jerked in pain at the sudden intrusion and buried his face into the rug.

"Oi, how is he? Is he tight?" Smith asked, his nails digging into Haytham's shoulders as he held the younger Templar down.

Harrison's head dropped back in ecstasy as he thrust into the unwilling body below him. "Fuck yes he is. The little bitch is clenching. I can see why the Grandmaster likes his ass so much."

"Well then finish the hell up. I want my turn. I wanna fuck him 'til he screams," Smith grinned wickedly.

"I'm going to take my time. Deal with it," Harrison grunted, hips snapping languidly into their captive.

Smith didn't seem too happy with that answer. For a moment, his nails bit angrily into Haytham's back before relaxing once more. "Finger him. Finger him while you fuck him. See how much this bitch can take."

"For once, that's a good idea you've had, Smith," Harrison reached his hand down to Haytham's face. Even though the younger Templar couldn't suck around the gag in his mouth, saliva was dribbling from his parted lips. Harrison slathered his fingers in the mess and withdrew them. He pulled his dick out partway and, with a freshly wet finger beside it, thrust back in.

Haytham jerked in surprise and squeezed his eyes shut. Birch had done something like that before. He had fingered him while fucking him, using two and sometimes three extra digits alongside his cock. Haytham knew that his body wouldn't break. It hurt, but he could handle pain. Pain was easy to compartmentalize and file away like a stack of invoices. But it still felt so wrong. These men were not allowed to touch him! And yet they were ravaging him, making him feel as if he were going to fall apart at the seams.

"Damn, he's taking two fingers and my cock already! Little slut!" Harrison crowed. It made Harold Smith fidget a little more and he kneaded the skin he was holding down.

"Do you think he could take two cocks? He seems hungry for them," Smith growled lowly.

"Go, clear off the Grandmaster's desk. We'll find out," Harrison released Haytham's hip and set his hand on the back of his skull. He fucked him slowly and smoothly, hissing between his teeth whenever he was fully sheathed and pulling out with a faint groan. Then, Harrison pulled out completely.

Haytham sucked in deep breaths as he rolled disobediently to his side. His body was shaking with rage and fear and pain and he tried to scoot backwards, away from the Templars intent on raping him.

"Now, now, you're not allowed to go anywhere yet, boy. You're still our guest of honor," Harrison gripped onto Haytham's leg and dragged him nearer. Still, Haytham struggled as the two men tried to move him over to the desk. It wasn't until Smith whacked the younger Templar over the head again that they managed to move his sagging body with relative ease.

Harrison lay across the desk as he maneuvered Haytham's limp body onto his lap. A quick thrust into the oiled heat was enough to have the younger man snarling again. Harrison gripped onto the backs of Haytham's knees, causing the man to fall across Harrison's chest face first. He gently thrust his hips into the inviting warmth, cooing words of encouragement into Haytham's ear. He could feel the youngest Templar's body shudder against him as Smith lined his cock up and pressed in slowly alongside Harrison.

A wounded, guttural, cry tore itself from Haytham's parted lips. His entire body seemed to convulse, trying to get rid of the intrusions. Smith held Haytham's hips in place, muttering dirty and filthy words as he fucked him.

"God, he's so tight with both of us. Fuck fuck fuck, he's just taking two dicks! Princess likes his cock, doesn't he? You can't be satisfied with just one, but you've gotta take two up the ass, is that it, Princess?" Smith goaded.

Haytham twisted his wrists against their bonds. His body was shaking like a leaf and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. His throat was tight, but his body suddenly forgot how to scream. He felt like he was going split, as if his body was going to snap into two! Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. These bastards would not get such weakness from him. They might ravage his body, but they would not take his mind. He comforted himself with thoughts of murdering these bastards. He would do worse to them. He would make them beg for mercy before the end of it and he would make them suffer. Not today, no, Reginald was watching. But they would answer for their transgressions.

Haytham groaned piteously into the gag as Smith picked up his pace. He felt his rear protest to the treatment, to the utter fullness enveloping his nerves. Smith's breath became ragged and short as he leaned over Haytham's body. His blunt nails dug into the youngest Templar's hips, no doubt leaving bruises and half-moon marks dotting his skin. Then finally, gratefully, Smith shot his load. Haytham could feel the warmth spurting inside of him. The heat was almost unbearable—searing and burning and far too warm—as the blond Templar thrust with abandon, his hips having lost all rhythm.

Then, once finally spent, he slowly removed himself with more grunts and pleased curses. Haytham sucked in a breath as he felt some of the pressure relieved. The sharp agony that had felt like shards of glass was replaced with a heavy throb.

"Sit him up," Harrison grunted, his voice flustered and heated.

Smith pulled Haytham upright, leaving behind a trail of saliva that had collected on Harrison's shoulder. He leaned Haytham's back against him, making him kneel, as Harrison gripped onto Haytham's hips and fucked him hard.

Haytham screwed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side as Harrison pulled his ass flush against him and came. More semen joined the initial mess and Haytham had a feeling that he could never be clean again.

Mumbling sated words of contentment, Harrison withdrew himself and rolled Haytham onto the desk. Haytham thought about kicking them as they moved away, but he hurt too much. His body was aching and his hands felt numb below his wrists. Only revenge addled fantasies comforted the young Templar as the other men dressed once more.

"My poor, sweet love," Birch cooed, his breath laden with alcohol. Haytham jerked as the Grandmaster caressed his sweaty, spit-smeared cheek. "If only you had been more obedient, then none of this would have been necessary." He untied the gag and threw it to the side. Haytham worked his jaw a few times, grateful that he could finally stop drooling all over himself. But he said nothing.

"You need only to obey me, my love. Obey my every whim, my every desire, and you will be spared the pain of these lessons," Birch tenderly rubbed Haytham's hips. The young Templar realized that Birch was still hard. A flare of panic rose in his throat, but he was too tired to fight. He just hurt far too much and his mind was still reeling.

Haytham found himself on his back, the edge of the desk digging into his spine, as Birch mounted him. Haytham's ass protested and he bit his lip to hold back the cry of pain.

"These men, these wretched men, they only pleased themselves. They didn't think about your pleasure, not for one moment," Birch continued as he moved his hips at just the right angle to make Haytham's eyes roll. His bound hands clawed at the desk beneath him, whether seeking purchase or escape, he didn't know.

"Only I can make you feel good. Only I can give you what you need," Birch took Haytham's cock in hand and worked it until Haytham was certain that all the blood in his brain had flown south. How was Haytham still able to get hard in this situation? He ignored the nausea and took in a ragged breath. He was little better than a whore. His father would be ashamed and disgusted. Tears prickled at the edges of his eyes.

"Haytham, my love, you have no idea how much you mean to me… It pains me to see others touch you. It hurts me more than it hurts you. I love you so much, so very, very much," Birch whispered his poison into Haytham's ear.

Haytham's back arched as Birch hit that spot again. It made him see stars and for a moment, nothing else mattered but achieving release. It would be like waking from a bad dream or drinking cool water when lost in the desert. Haytham needed to come and Birch knew every spot on his pupil's body to make him lose control. Every thrust and caress was measured and smooth. Haytham's body was a map and Birch was the cartographer. Haytham heard himself moan as he wrapped his legs around Birch's back, his hips rolling to meet with his lover's. Tears finally made a hot, wet trail down his cheeks as he cried out for more, more, more.

Distantly, he heard Harold Smith and John Harrison talking in awed, disgusted voices about the display before them. They called Haytham an animal. They called him a woman for liking cock up his ass. They called him a sodomite and for a moment, for a brief fleeting moment, Haytham didn't care. He keened loudly as he came, spurts of semen dotting his twitching abdomen. Birch orgasmed a moment later, releasing himself inside Haytham.

Haytham could feel the fatigue wearing on him as Birch pulled out. A mess dribbled down Haytham's thigh and Birch wiped away his tears as if Haytham were 13 years old again. He was rolled to the side and his hands were unbound. His wrists were bloody and bruised, but there would be no permanent damage.

Birch hovered over him, a fresh house coat in one hand, and kissed Haytham deeply. The two let their tongues intertwine before Birch pulled away in shock and surprise. Haytham had bitten him.

The young Templar's gaze was flinty and unreadable as he regarded his former mentor and lover. His tears had dried and his lips were stained red from the nasty bite to his Grandmaster. Birch breathed deep, waiting for the dam to break.

Haytham stared him in the eyes, all trace of fear suppressed. His voice was low, dangerous, and heavy with unspoken threats.

"Don't ever touch me again."

And with that, Haytham stood, painfully and tenderly, and snatched the house coat out of Birch's hand. He slipped the robe on, shoved his way past the other Templars, and went down the hallway to the wash room.

In the morning, he would be leaving to track down Jack Digweed, with or without Birch. Things could never be the same between the Grandmaster and Haytham, but that was for the best. Haytham could not afford any more interruptions.


	2. Jim Holden

**Crimmy Comments:** This fic only follows a loose chronology, so my apologies for the errant time-skipping adventures!

* * *

**Chapter Specific Pairings:** Haytham Kenway/Jim Holden

**Chapter Specific Warnings:** Handjobs, fluff, violence, suicide, death, angst, feels

* * *

**Ch. 2**

**Jim Holden**

Haytham made a face at the bland stew sitting stagnant in his bowl. It looked downright awful and it tasted worse. He prodded the thick, gelatinous masses that were floating like bloated bodies and suddenly, he felt his appetite wither.

"You should eat to keep up your strength, Mister Kenway." Private Jim Holden, a bright-eyed, ginger-haired youth from Braddock's troops, said. Even though the suggestion itself was harmless, Haytham couldn't help but cast a disdainful glance to Holden. The lad was eagerly supping down his own soup as if it was a meal fit for a king. "Just pretend that it's a fine venison stew, with thick cut vegetables and potatoes and all the right seasonings swimming around in it," Holden complimented his imaginary stew with a smack of his lips.

Haytham tried to entertain the notion for a moment, he really did try. But with a defeated sigh, he just cast his bowl aside, pushing it towards Holden. "I'll eat later," he said dryly.

Holden opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it with a quirk of his lips. He accepted the bowl of stew and gave Haytham his chunk of bread. "An even trade then, Sir," Holden's eyes twinkled mischievously and Haytham knew in an instant that the lad would not take 'no' for an answer.

It had been a few months since Haytham last saw Birch; he left him behind with Digweed's cooling corpse to pursue the pointy eared man. Haytham thought to return to the chateau—he did miss a warm bed and clean clothes—but Birch would be there, waiting. Though living in Braddock's army was the closest thing that Haytham could imagine to hell on earth, it was not completely unbearable. It got him away from Reginald Birch. At this point, just the thought of his former mentor made shudders of revulsion, fear, and unwanted desire rattle him. He couldn't look at the other men without wondering if they somehow, inexplicably knew. Haytham couldn't be like them, with their shirts off in the hot summer and bragging about the women they've fucked in their youth. He carried an irrational fear in his chest. Perhaps just by looking at him, just by standing a moment in Haytham's presence, they would know that Haytham had spent his teenage years sleeping with an older man. Perhaps they'd know he had been raped.

But no one knew. He passed under their noses, labeled as a pretentious snob rather than a sodomite. Haytham was fine with that. He would be the elitist that they assumed. Such an air kept people at arm's length, kept them away from him. While the loneliness was frustrating at times, Haytham was accustomed to seclusion. His father had hidden his whole family away in a manor. Birch hid him in a chateau. Now, he could hide amongst an army. It wasn't so bad, and the situation was made more tolerable yet since Holden began sharing a tent with him.

At first, the Templar had rejected the notion of daring to share his quarters, with another person. But as space became limited and tents became more and more scarce, Haytham decided that bunking with Holden was better than sleeping near any of the other soldiers and mercenaries. Jim Holden was loud and talkative. He filled up the quiet evenings by rambling about his home in London. The lad was careful to dodge around the topic of his dead brother, but that was to be expected. After all, Holden wanted justice just as much as Haytham did.

When Haytham first arrived to the camp, after having narrowly dodged being hung at a makeshift gallows, he had searched high and low for information on the pointy eared man. Out of the entire ranks, only Holden came forward to speak. The information he had bordered on sheer madness, but what twisted truth didn't sound insane? The pointy eared man had been one of Braddock's personal soldiers. And one of Braddock's personal soldiers happened to sentence Holden's elder brother to death at the gallows for stealing a bit of stew. Holden wanted justice for his brother's needless death as much as Haytham wanted revenge for his father's murder.

So if there was anyone in the entire camp to make friends with, it was Private Jim Holden.

Of course, Haytham had to pretend to become far too preoccupied with Braddock's expeditions. He had to seem as if he had dropped his search for his father's killer in order to lull the mad General into a twitchy sense of security. So far, it was working. And he was gaining a true comrade in the process.

Though Holden was annoying and loud and he snored at night, he was still a fine friend. His optimism, though painful at times, was like a ray of sunshine after too many rainy days. Despite the horrors of war weighing on his shoulders, the ginger-haired man always had something to smile about and seemed to strive to make Haytham's lip quirk at the strangest times. It was entirely infuriating and maddeningly endearing at once.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when Haytham found himself attracted to the red headed buffoon. Moths always flocked to the flame. Of course, Haytham had no intention of being burned. He tried to distract himself in the campaigns through Europe. He immersed himself in his work. Working was easier than thinking about such wretched things as emotions. And thinking about that was even easier than actually feeling them. As long as everything was in a plain, objective, light, then Haytham was fine. He was fine with campaigning alongside the irritatingly murderous Braddock, he was fine with trying a different, simpler lifestyle, and he was fine about his and Reginald's rather disastrous falling out. Besides, Holden didn't deserve the shame that Haytham's feelings would bring. Being fancied by another man wasn't something to be proud of.

He didn't suspect that Holden also yearned for him.

The first time that they had…physical interaction, Haytham figured that it was mutual base, animal need. It had been a long time since they had camped anywhere near town. Usually when Haytham felt that anxious stirring in him, he would slip into the nearest bar to find a nameless woman for the night. He wasn't technically enlisted in Braddock's army, so no harm would come to him for leaving camp. And sometimes, the soldiers would bring back a handful of prostitutes for their own needs.

But for months, the troops had been waiting out the winter in camp. It was only natural for the men to seek comfort in the palm of their hands after so long without the warmth of another body. Haytham himself had been too involved in his fantasy of firm, bouncing breasts and a tight canal around his cock that he didn't notice when Holden first entered the tent.

It wasn't until Holden gently pulled the Templar's soiled hand away from his spent loins that Haytham froze in realization.

"Seems you've gone and made a mess of yourself, Sir," Holden commented. Though his voice was light, his eyes were heavy with lust and his tone strained with need. The redhead took Haytham's hand into his mouth, licking away the evidence of his private party.

Haytham blinked, first in shock, then in fear, and finally in rage as he recoiled. Holden took a brief moment to be surprised, but then sighed.

"Perhaps this was a bit too soon…" Holden lamented.

For once in his life, Haytham was lost for intelligible words. He quickly stuffed himself back into his breeches. "Sodomy is illegal," he hissed quietly.

"So's murder," Holden replied with a shrug. He knew of Haytham's occupation as a Templar. He knew that they killed outside the law.

But even though his advance had been smashed flat, Holden still saw a glimmer of hope. Haytham only pointed out the legal aspect of sodomy, rather than blatantly arguing his sexual orientation. And now, the Templar was too ruffled to do much else than quickly throw on his coat over the other layers of clothing.

Holden smiled and flopped back onto his bedroll. He languidly fingered the hem of his waistcoat, just barely lifting it above his breeches. "It's only natural for a man to need to take some time for himself, Sir," he lazily undid the laces on his breeches and reached inside. "Everyone needs a –ah!—needs a hand every now and then…"

Haytham was still wrestling his boot on, but the fight was far less determined than before. His cold eyes drifted up to watch as Holden arched into his own hand. His mouth was suddenly far too dry and he wetted his lips. The lad's voice was hushed, but the eager sighs of pleasure sounded like waves thundering through Haytham's ears.

"You're going to get caught and hung in the gallows," Haytham growled.

"Only if you tattle on me, Sir," Holden's words were breathy with need and even though it was likely exaggerated for Haytham's pleasure, the Templar still felt himself magnetically attracted to the soldier. This was wrong. His mind screamed at him to stop—shouting reminders that attraction to another male was unnatural. He was suddenly a step closer to Holden. Then another step closer, one boot on and one boot forgotten by his bedroll. And another step.

Holden smiled at him, his forehead beginning to shine with the slightest bit of sweat even in this frigid weather.

That was all that it took for Haytham to fall to his knees over the redheaded man, brusquely shooing away Holden's hand. He gripped the plump cock under him, suddenly finding that he felt like he was on fire and at the same time, freezing in shame.

Holden rolled his hips into Haytham's fist with an encouraging smile.

"Please, Sir. Do as you wish."

Haytham's mind—his glorious, quick-witted mind—immediately numbed as he fiercely took Holden's lips with his own, swallowing the groan of need from the redhead. His own cock was reawakening as he stroked the other man. It had been too long since he felt pleasure. Holden met the desperate kiss with an eager tongue. He palmed Haytham through his breeches, enticing the other man's cock to come out and play.

Haytham felt a heady rush of excitement as his dick was reintroduced to another's touch. It was unfamiliar frightening with another man, yes, but he was determined. This was different. He was in control. He was kneeling above Holden and fisting his cock as he pleased. There were no barked orders and no rushed apologies. Haytham was in control.

He nipped Holden's lip, his breath unnaturally harsh in his ears. "You're quite intent on giving me a 'hand', hm?" he husked.

"A good man always returns his favors," Holden whispered, finally untying Haytham's breeches again and stroking the impressive length.

Haytham grunted as his heated flesh was fisted in time with his own hand. The two men's breaths were ragged and hushed as they neared completion. Their hips were rolling and grinding into each other's hands like horny teenagers having their first romp. It felt like sheer bliss and yet it was terrifying at the same time, as if he were running straight for a mountain ledge. He felt as if he could throw himself over and never hit the bottom of the ravine—such was the vastness of his fright and delight.

Holden's body tensed and Haytham could feel the base of his balls drawing up against his body. Covering the redhead's mouth with his own yet again, he swallowed the eager cries of his partner. Cum jetted between their bodies, thoroughly soiling their waistcoats, as Holden trembled against Haytham. His hand was a vice on the Templar's shoulder, hard enough to bruise, as if he were holding onto Haytham for dear life. Holden broke the kiss to suck in a breath of air, still rolling his hips and riding out the vestiges of his orgasm.

Haytham kissed the side of Holden's mouth again, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he ground his erection into the soldier's slackened grip. Holden blinked, and with a small quirk of his lip, remembered to finish Haytham off. His hand was fast and hard as it pulled at Haytham's erection. The Templar wrenched his eyes shut and fisted the bedroll beneath them and his toes were curling as he came into Holden's hand. Haytham jerked his hips into the iron grip a few more times, milking his cock until the lights behind his eyes finally faded.

Haytham peeled his eyes open, glancing down at the disheveled and smiling soldier beneath him. He knew that he should say something, but no words came to him. Instead, he opted to roll off of the slighter man and pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket. After wiping his hand and waistcoat in silence, he handed the cloth to Holden. The redhead gratefully took it and cleaned himself up as well.

The two didn't speak for the rest of the night or the next day.

And they didn't touch each other again for a long time.

* * *

**Six Years Later**

"Are you certain that you're okay with this? You can still back out at any given time," Haytham offered. The manor at Queen Anne's Square was now devoid of servants. They had seen their Master Kenway home, and had little else to offer for the evening. That was good. Haytham didn't want them there any more than necessary.

"With all due respect, Mister Kenway, how many times do I have to tell you?" Holden rolled his eyes, suddenly exasperated. "Yes, I want to do this. I want to be by your side and help you in your personal battle for however long it takes. I've already pledged my loyalty to you, Sir. Don't go doubting it now, after all of these years."

Haytham's hands clenched behind his back and he turned on his heel. "Very well then. We begin tomorrow. For tonight, let us concentrate on rest. It's been a long journey."

After a quick dinner, the two men retired by a fire in the study. But it wasn't his father's study. Even though Haytham knew that the manor had been rebuilt after the fire to nearly the same floor plan, it just wasn't the same. It had been tampered with. It had been defiled. This wasn't his home any more, and he couldn't pretend that it had ever been. His home had burnt to the ground. This was just a sham. It made Haytham's heart constrict to think that his mother had lived here for so long, in this dingy replica, until she had died. Yet even though he didn't want this place anymore, he knew he had to keep it. He had to live in it for as long as he resided in London, else the Templars would catch onto his charade.

Without a word to Holden, Haytham left the study. He wandered the hallways, searching for something familiar and finding nothing. It was a stranger's home. Meandering like a wraith, he finally stopped outside of his mother's bedroom. He knew that it had been hers. The servants had told him such. He turned the knob and paused, suddenly afraid of what he would find on the other side. His mother was dead, but perhaps her spirit wasn't at rest? No, Haytham was not a superstitious individual and he didn't believe in ghosts. But then what was he so afraid of?

Frustrated at himself, he finally threw open the door. It clapped against the wall with a hollow bang and Haytham felt his heart pounding in his head. He stepped into the room and glanced around. Frowning, he realized that what he felt was worse than fear.

He felt nothing.

There was nothing familiar in this room. There were none of his mother's old dresses. There was none of her jewelry or perfumes. There were no ashes in the hearth and no makeup in the drawers. There was nothing left of his mother in there.

A cold hollowness pervaded his senses and Haytham had a sudden sensation of disorientation. He was lost in his own manor.

A warm hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. He whipped around, hand grabbing at the hip where his short sword should have been.

"Easy, Sir, easy," Holden urged, his hands up and open. "I heard a noise and got awful worried, Master Haytham."

The Templar's lips pursed and he glanced around once more.

"Let's just get you back downstairs, hm? It's been a long day and it'll be an even longer one come the morning!" Holden's voice was soft and full of the promise of a new day. He gently took Haytham's arm and led him out of the dreaded room where his mother had died.

"…They took her things, Holden. They took all of her things," Haytham murmured numbly. "Why would they do that? This was her home, and they had no right!"

"Now, they probably just stored the stuff away, Sir. Probably didn't wanna keep dusting it or whatever."

Haytham nodded at the response and pulled his arm away from Holden. He gathered his wits up about him again, feeling his shock slide from his mind like water from glass.

The Templar insisted on another drink down in the study and Holden reluctantly agreed. Another drink turned into two, and then three and four. Haytham didn't remember falling asleep after some time, but he did wake up to a chill in the room.

He was slouched in the cushioned chair, kinks in his neck and back and a blanket draped over his chest. Even though the fire had gone out, he could still see in the dark. Holden was fast asleep on a short couch to the side, a blanket cocooned around him as well.

Haytham couldn't help but smile.

He entertained the idea of venturing up to a proper bed, but some part of his mind (still slightly addled from the drink) insisted that this was just fine. He had spent the past six years sleeping in the same tent as Holden and he was in no mood to go secluding himself in another room quite yet. This was just fine, even if it was only for a night. It was just fine.

Haytham leaned back into his chair, dutifully watching Holden's chest rise and fall with deep breaths. The ginger-headed soldier really was impressive. For all of Haytham's complications, Holden could read him like an open book. He knew all about his nightmares about Birch. He knew about the twisted relationship that the Grandmaster had manipulated him into. Holden knew about both Haytham's desire for and fear of men. He knew everything that the rest of the world wasn't allowed to know. And yet through all of the complication, he remained by Haytham's side. Holden even helped him when old memories surfaced like drowned corpses and threatened to drag him into madness. Without Holden, he would've suffocated long ago.

The Templar liked to think that Holden was remaining by his side out of their mutual quest for justice. But part of him sometimes entertained the thought that it was something more than that. The mere idea almost always put Haytham's mind on immediate arrest, but he still could not un-fathom it. He knew he was vain, but how could he be that vain?

Haytham draped his blanket over the edge of the chair and noiselessly moved and crouched beside Holden. He stared into the ginger's freckled face, watching his eyelashes dance ever so slightly as the lad dreamed.

"I never imagined that I would have someone so loyal and determined by my side," Haytham whispered into the darkness. The coals on the fire flickered a few times, their dull orange glow barely reaching past the hearth.

"I know that I don't always thank you for what you do for me, and I know that I'm stubborn as a mule on a hot day, but…" Haytham paused, gently fingering some of Holden's ginger bangs from his face. "Hell…I can't even thank you properly when you're awake. I've got to do something like this, talking to a sleeping man…" Haytham quietly berated himself.

He closed his eyes and paused to listen to Holden's breathing. The lad's breaths were still deep and measured.

"I just wanted to say…thank you. I've never known someone so wonderful could exist…" Haytham breathed as the coals crackled. "I've told you before that I don't know what it's like to…love someone intimately, but I think that's a lie…" he inhaled deeply, pressing his forehead against the armrest of the couch. "I think that I…that I l—"

A finger pressed firmly to Haytham's lips. The Templar's eyes shot open to catch the penetrating green orbs of Jim Holden.

"Shhh, sir. You don't have to say anything," Holden blinked sleepily and leaned forward to catch Haytham's shocked lips in an almost chaste kiss. "I already know."

Another kiss, and Haytham jerked away.

"But what if I become like…him?" Haytham swallowed the lump in his throat. He still remembered the sort of man that Birch was.

"I won't allow it," Holden stroked his cheek. "As long as I'm around, I will never let you fall."

Haytham searched Holden's eyes as one searches for the truth.

"I…thank you, I…"

"Shhh… I know."

That night, Haytham let his body speak the inexpressible words for him. He would say that he fucked Jim Holden, but that would be untrue. He would say that he made love to Jim Holden, but that was too frightening of a concept to admit.

Yet their bodies intertwined and rolled and rose and fell and clasped and thrashed like a wave in high tide. Holden whispered Haytham's name to the darkness like a prayer and Haytham clung to Holden's body as if it were a raft keeping his head above water. Yet even so, he felt like he was drowning and flying at once. Holden left scratches on his back and mutual hickeys on his neck as Haytham rolled into him in a rhythm so intimate that it left the Templar thoughtless.

Eventually, morning broke without remorse and the two men grudgingly disengaged. Their limbs detangled and after cleaning up, they went along their daily routines.

Yet even through the mundane and the plotting, there was still something else there. Haytham could sometimes catch a glimpse of that something in Holden's eyes and while it always startled him, it also brought him a comfort that he thought didn't exist. Jim Holden was an incredible man.

* * *

**December 1755**

Haytham stood on the ship, watching and waiting as they sailed into the English harbor. It had been so long since he had last seen Holden, and though their parting had been amicable, it had always left a bad taste in Haytham's mouth throughout his duration in the colonies.

Just before he had set sail for the Colonies last year, Holden had insisted that Haytham try to find a wife. He had reminded the Templar of the need for procreation, not only to help Haytham in his later years, but to carry on the Kenway name. Haytham understood the plain logic behind Holden's words, but he had still felt scalded. Who was Holden to tell Haytham to go find a woman and settle down? Haytham was certainly still attracted to women, but he couldn't shake the part of him that wanted Holden. Their relationship had blossomed into something unspoken, but painfully obvious. It had been the elephant in the room that neither could ever admit to seeing. The two men simply couldn't, or wouldn't, verbalize their feelings. They instead expressed themselves between the sheets, sighing and moaning in pleasure as their skin sang songs of bottomless affection. Haytham had even let Holden take him on occasion, giving more trust to the man than he ever thought possible.

And yet Holden wanted Haytham to find a wife and have children.

Well, that venture didn't go so well.

Haytham's mouth thinned bitterly as the ship docked with several, rocky jerks. Even from here, he could use his eagle vision and spot a bright blue light waiting for him. Haytham's nerves jumped a little and he found himself anxious. Of course, a Templar Grandmaster needed to keep complete control of his self, so he smoothed the feeling away and disembarked with grace.

The year had been kind to Holden as always and Haytham still had to wonder how he could still look like a young lad. After all, Jim Holden was older than Haytham by nearly seven years and yet they still looked the same age. It was one of those quirks that he could appreciate from his gentleman.

They greeted each other as good friends, with hearty pats on the back and the promise of catching up later. It wasn't until they reached the manor in Queen Anne's Square that Holden threw his arms around Haytham and simply held him. It was a warm embrace and for that moment, Haytham wished that it would never end.

The two men talked over dinner. Haytham relayed his adventures in the colonies with more enthusiasm than he felt. He also talked about Ziio. At that, Holden first looked very happy and pleased for Haytham. But by the end of the tale, he realized the sorrow that Haytham felt.

"Perhaps…she will come around? It sounds like a misunderstanding, after all," Holden suggested hopefully.

Haytham shook his head with a heavy sigh. "No, she won't. That's not Ziio's way. Once that woman's mind is made up, there is no swaying her."

Holden stared at the nice tablecloth beneath his empty plate. He seemed torn between what to say and what not to say. But rather than wait for any more words to come from his gentleman's mouth, Haytham stood and began gathering the plates.

"Oh, let me do that, sir!" Holden jumped up and grabbed the dishes from Haytham's hands. Haytham released them and sat back down. He waited for Holden to finish clearing the table and refilling their glasses with wine.

"So tell me about Jenny's location again," he said, folding his hands in front of him.

The redheaded man relayed all information that he had and Haytham couldn't help but smile. Holden was as thorough as ever. He stood in the middle of an explanation, prompting Holden to stop talking, his hand frozen in mid-gesticulation.

Haytham towered over Holden, and gently tipped his ginger head backwards. He leaned over the chair and brushed his lips against his friend's. Holden reciprocated, reaching up to grasp the back of Haytham's neck greedily.

"What about women? You need a wife…" Holden broke the kiss to ask breathily. A flicker of fear dashed across his green eyes.

Haytham smiled and leaned down for another kiss. "I don't want a woman right now. I'm happy with you."

A certain brightness filled Holden's eyes and he stood to meet his friend's heated embrace. The two ventured to the bedroom and lay together again, taking their time grinding and reaching their peak with free moans and cries of joy and adoration. After, an optimism filled Haytham as he held the sweaty, sated body next to him. Once he rescued Jenny and let his sister oversee the manor, he would take Holden back to the colonies with him. Even if Holden didn't want to become a Templar, then at least they could be together. And the other Templars? Well, they would just have to accept the fact that Haytham's gentlemen would be joining their merry band. They didn't need to know of the sodomy. It was too precious a bond to reveal to others anyways. They could hide their love in the light and let it run rampant in the dark. Everything was going to be fine.

Two days later saw the friends setting out on their journey to find Haytham's sister. They loved and laughed on their travels, almost to the point of acting like young teenagers again. Though they both understood the dangers of their plan, neither one believed that they would die. Things were going too well. They had everything planned out already and they were too strong to fail.

But months later, as Haytham unburied his mutilated lover from the sand with a heart-wrenching sob, he knew that things had changed. Holden's body and mind were changed forever.

Haytham slew the monsters responsible for Holden's pain, just as he slew the beast that haunted his own nightmares. That's what Haytham was good at. He could kill, but he couldn't heal. That was Holden's expertise.

And Holden could only heal the pain of others.

Haytham had been stabbed by the very Assassin that he freed from Birch's twisted grasp. He had seen the rage and pain in the younger man's eyes. Immediately, he knew what Birch did to Julio.

Perhaps that haunting knowledge is what urged him to beg that the Assassins be spared.

The last months of the year crept slowly by as Holden tended to a feverish, injured Haytham. The Templar remembered snippets of conversation, of delirious rambling and flailing. He remembered Holden reading to him at some point.

"_But little Mouse, you are not alone,_

_In proving foresight may be vain,_

_The best laid schemes of mice and men,_

_Often go awry,_

_And leave us nothing but grief and pain,_

_For promised joy._"

And Haytham fell back into muddled slumber.

When Haytham awoke, he couldn't believe that three months had passed. His sensation of time was thrown off kilter and he thought that Jenny and Holden were teasing him. But closer inspection proved otherwise.

Haytham's body, bed-ridden as it was, had thinned. And he wasn't the only one who changed. Holden looked so…different. His face was drawn and gaunt, and his freckles stood out in stark contrast to the pale cheeks. Even though his clothes were the same, Haytham could tell that they were hanging differently from his body. Holden had lost weight.

"…You haven't been eating," Haytham murmured one evening as Holden pushed a tray of soup at him. "Why don't you sit down and have dinner with me? I would enjoy the company."

Holden smiled and Haytham was taken aback. Whenever his friend had smiled before, it had been more with his eyes than his mouth. But now, those green eyes were dull and lackluster and his lips stretched over his teeth like a corpse left in the desert. "No thank you, Master Haytham. I haven't been very hungry as of late."

"…But you will stay with me, yes?" Haytham urged. He had never known Holden to say no to any food. Even in the past, when Haytham had burnt dinners to a blackened disaster, Holden still ate it and relished every bite. This new behavior was becoming more and more worrisome.

A morbid heaviness hung in the air. Holden sighed, fidgeted, and finally sat down with a tenderness that was new to Haytham. The Templar released the breath of relief that he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"I'm sorry, Holden. You've been by my side all of these months, and I appreciate your tenacity and loyalty," Haytham took a spoonful of soup into his mouth, despite his dwindling appetite. "But soon, we'll leave here. You can come to the colonies with me once I'm well enough to travel. We can be together all the time, not separated by an ocean. I can show you Boston and New York. I think that you'd like New York. You can meet my team of Templars, you'd get along smashingly with William and Thomas, and we can plan the Order of the new land together…"

Haytham's voice trailed off into oppressive silence. He tried to eat another spoonful of soup before setting his tray aside.

"Holden… I—"

"I promised Miss Jenny that I would pull you out of the darkness one more time, Master Haytham. And I kept my word," Holden interrupted, staring blankly out of the window. He paused, breath seemingly caught in his chest, before turning and offering Haytham another blank, tired smile. "Don't you worry, Sir. Everything is going to be alright."

Haytham wanted to believe those words, but he couldn't. Instead, he insisted that Holden lay next to him and he held the stiff body in his arms, trying his damnedest to bring some sort of comfort to his inconsolable lover. Sometime after, fatigue ensnared Haytham and he fell asleep.

The next morning greeted him with an empty bed and cold sheets. And Haytham immediately understood something before he found the note or heard Jenny's mortified screams.

He understood that he would never be the same again.

* * *

_Haytham,_

_I know that we were never much on sappy words, and I know that we never say what we need to say. But I won't have a chance after this. I love you. I love you so much that it hurts. For that, I'm sorry for my selfishness. I can't go back to how we were. I can't heal from this pain and I won't be able to give you what you need. Please, let me go and live your life. Find a wife, have children, be happy. Please be happy._

_That's all that I want for you._

_Forever with love,_

_Jim Holden_


	3. Ziio

**Crimmy Comments: **Again, this fic only follows a loose chronology! This chapter happens around the middle of the last one.

* * *

**Chapter Specific Pairings: **Haytham Kenway/Ziio; Ziio/Haytham/Charles

**Chapter Specific Warnings: **Blowjobs, handjobs, graphic sex, threesome, fingering, fluff, dreamsex

* * *

**Ch. 3**

**Ziio**

**July 1755**

**Week One**

A bird was laughing. Haytham didn't know how a _bird_ of all creatures could laugh, but this one was undoubtedly chortling and sniggering at his misfortune as he wandered around the wooded area. If he found that bird (was it a thrush? Was it a sparrow?), he would catch it. He would put a bullet through its tiny, feathered body and he would pluck it and eat what's left. Maybe he'd keep some of the feathers and tie them to his belt. He was not in a pleasant mood.

Normally, after spending the night with a woman, Haytham was the first one to leave. He would clean his groin, put on his clothes and hat, give a cheeky, charming wink or possibly a kiss on the cheek, and he would walk out. That would be that. He would never see the woman again. But this time—oh this time!—he dared to nap with Ziio wrapped in his arms and when he awoke, she was nowhere to be found. He had tried to search for her, but to no avail. Instead, he had strapped all of his weapons and belts to his breeches again and set off for Boston. The next day, he returned to the Precursor Site in the hope that Ziio would be there, waiting for him.

Perhaps it was vain to think that she would return to this particular spot, but he could think of nowhere else. He didn't know where her village was and even if he did, he strongly doubted that her tribesmen would be pleased to have a white, British, well-to-do fellow waltzing into their home. And what would he tell them? 'Oh, I just tumbled with one of your women and was wondering where she flew off to!' wasn't an appealing choice. Although he assumed Ziio to be unmarried and single, he had no concrete evidence. She could be courted or even betrothed by her own clansmen! All he could do was find her.

How ridiculous! To think that he, Haytham Kenway, the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, was chasing after a woman like an errant teenager. This was ridiculous. He had plans to hatch and comrades to lead. But a deceitful part of his mind urged him forward. It wasn't just his hormones that demanded he find Ziio, but also something else that he couldn't describe. Just seeing the woman, beautiful and dangerous and willful, made something in his stomach flip. She made his mouth dry and his fingers shake. She made his tongue freeze and his cheeks burn. She made him smile, even when her quick-wit was delivered at his expense. Ziio was magnificent and Haytham wanted to know more about her. He was undoubtedly curious. How could such a person, a Native woman no less, render Haytham into a speechless mess? He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to understand how she worked, like a puzzle or a pocket watch. But it would be ungentlemanly to just dissect her like a fish. He wanted to get to know her. And well, becoming knowledgeable over her…ahem, _assets_ was an appealing thought to both his mind and his loins. Holden would be pleased.

When he first set out for the Colonies, Haytham was determined only on his mission. Even after he spent the year gathering his comrades and forging alliances and plotting against Silas and Braddock, his priority was locating the Precursor Site. There wasn't time for women. Holden had been firm, if not demanding, that Haytham find a wife when he set out for the Colonies, and Haytham had scoffed at the idea. He liked women's bodies and their smell and their soft skin under his hands, but he couldn't imagine himself actually LIVING with one or raising their children. He much preferred Holden in that respect. He would've rather spent his years with his gentleman by his side rather than some wench. Haytham had been determined to remain single during his stay in the Colonies. That would've shown Holden!

But then Ziio happened.

Haytham knew that he was physically attracted to her. When he had commandeered the slave convoy all those months ago, he had to keep reminding himself of the task at hand. It would have been easy to reach out and touch Ziio's skin. It was so dark and lovely and bronzed with tiny dark freckles. Although he had seen many different shades of skin on his travels, he had never seen such perfection. He wanted to know what it felt like, what it tasted like.

But of course, that sort of behavior was unfit for a Grandmaster and a decent man. He had kept his hands to himself and continued on the mission. But for the nights thereafter, he couldn't help but wonder after her. He thought that it would stop at physical lust, but as he continued the missions, he couldn't keep the enigmatic woman off of his mind. He wanted to know her. He wanted to hear her voice say his name, whether mockingly or lovingly.

He finally got his wish at the Precursor site. She had screamed his name, cried out for him repeatedly as he thrust into her tight, wet heat. She surely must have been a virgin, but she didn't want her first time to be slow and sweet. Her proud intensity had flashed in her dark eyes as she bared her teeth at him and demanded more, faster, harder, deeper, more, more, more!

After her body shook and she screamed and her eyes rolled and her fingers left bruises on his shoulders, she finally calmed like a stream after a raging flood. Haytham kissed her and felt the breath leave his chest as if she were stealing it away. She had been so beautiful, sprawled beneath him with semen dotting her sculpted abdomen and perky breasts. Ziio had demanded that he clean her, inside and out. with his mouth and Haytham hadn't refused. She came again with his tongue on her core. Afterwards, they had fallen asleep.

When Haytham next awoke, he was alone.

There wasn't a note or memento or even a strand of Ziio's hair left behind. She had fled and seemed to take the oxygen with her.

That put Haytham in a bad mood.

And now here he was again, searching the woods in vain, hoping against rationale that Ziio would still be here and waiting for him. Had he not been so frustrated, he would've laughed at himself. As it was, he could draw his lips into a bitter, bloodless line, and continue searching.

The damn bird laughed again.

He gritted his teeth and continued stomping about. On one occasion, he even tried to take to the trees like he'd seen Ziio do. But while Haytham could climb the trunk just fine, he had a more difficult time knowing what branches were safe to jump on and which were not. He cursed more colorfully than he thought he ever could as they cracked and sagged under his weight. He couldn't leap from limb to limb as Ziio had done; he was simply too heavy and clumsy. Instead, he tried to stick to the thicker, stronger branches. It worked for a time until he got himself mixed up on a certain tree.

The tree itself was safe and the branch he perched was steady. He used his Eagle Vision to scan the area, ignoring the angry squawks of some bird to his right. It was a sparrow or a robin or…or something feathered with wings. He ignored it in favor of searching for Ziio. But out of nowhere, as he was pleasantly minding his own business, it dove in and snapped its beak at his face.

Haytham flailed, cursing wildly as the bird tried to scratch and peck his ears and hands. He nearly fell more than once and resorted to pin-wheeling his arms like a novice on a rooftop. Haytham tried to swat at the bird, but every time he shifted his weight too suddenly, the branch would creak ominously. It was only with the bird scratching at his exposed skin that he finally managed to shimmy down to another branch. Still, it followed him until he leaped into another tree. Those branches also sagged and a few snapped. He scrambled unceremoniously to a junction in the branches and clung to the bark for dear life.

The sparrow attacking him finally flew away. The laughing bird chortled again.

"I hate birds…" he grumbled irately.

Then he heard another noise. At first, he thought that it was the annoying laughing bird, but it was too close and too feminine. Haytham snapped his head around, his arms still wrapped around the branch.

Ziio was perched a few trees away, laughing at him and wiping tears from her eyes.

Oh, he fumed.

"Stop laughing," Haytham called to her. He looked around for the vicious feathered fiend before jumping unsteadily from branch to branch. "That wasn't—" he leaped, "—funny!"

"That bird was protecting her nest! The misfortune wasn't her fault—it was yours!" Ziio called, mirth dripping from her tongue.

"I'll keep that in mind," Haytham grumbled under his breath as he slowly made his way closer. It wasn't until he was a few trees away that he saw Ziio's posture change. He glanced up at her. Her face was split into a wide smirk and even from the distance, he could see the mischief in her eyes.

"Oh no. Don't you dare run away now!" Haytham groaned. But she only gave a jaunty wave of her hand and then plummeted from the tree branch.

Ziio caught one of the branches below, swung and threw herself to another tree. Haytham released the breath he had sucked in.

"Why are you running!?" he called. "Stop!"

She laughed again, pausing only to glance over her shoulder at him. "A woman deserves to be coveted."

Oh that coy, smug bitch.

Haytham sighed, exasperation making his nerves writhe. But at the same time, he felt a smile tug and twitch on his lips. He would play her game. If she wanted to play the lovely deer, then he would be the hunter. Although after a few more leaps from tree to tree, Haytham picked another bad branch and fell to the ground. He cussed and cursed, brushing leaves off of him and rubbing his side and leg where he knew bruises would form. Fine. If the trees wouldn't cooperate with him, then he wouldn't use them! Instead, he followed on the ground.

Unfortunately, he kept losing his target. He would hear her one moment, then once he looks, she'd be gone. He would search some more, his neck forming a magnificent kink in it as he stared up, but she wouldn't be in sight.

"Aren't we a bit old for games?" he called.

Only the laughing bird responded.

He huffed again, smoothing back his hair into the ponytail, and kept searching. Perhaps using his Eagle Vision was cheating, but at that point, he didn't care. He just wanted to find Ziio and watch her smile and laugh and tease him. He wanted to hold her again.

Finally, he spotted a pile of leaves that were glowing white in his Eagle Vision. He crept away from it slowly, branches and leaves crunching under his feet. Then, he hoisted himself into the lowest branch of a tree. Ziio wouldn't see this coming!

He quietly leaped to a branch overhanging the leaf pile, took off his hat and set it atop a small leaf cluster, and hung upside down by his knees. What a sight he must have been! A grown man, complete with weapons and quality clothes, was hanging from a branch in an effort to catch a woman as if he were fishing in a pond with his bare hands. He must have looked a fool. With a shout, he plunged his arms into the leaf pile and spooked out his prey.

Ziio yelped and wiggled away from his strong grip. She darted out of the leaf pile, but not before Haytham caught one of her arms. He held tight, laughing and grinning like an idiot.

"Caught you!"

Ziio was already chuckling, but as soon as she spotted the Englishman, hanging upside down from a tree, his face flushed and his hair coming undone, she couldn't help but break into side-splitting giggles. Her knees gave out and tears formed in her eyes as she clutched her belly as laughter shook her slight frame.

Haytham hoisted himself up to grab his hat and then flipped out of the tree, perhaps a bit more extravagantly than need be. He ought to have been angry at her. Ziio did leave him alone in the cave without so much as a goodbye, then made fun of him and sent him on a race through the canopy. He ought to have been angry, but he wasn't. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much as he drew her into a firm, warm embrace.

As soon as he caught his breath, he buried his nose into the heady musk of her hair.

"Why did you leave?" he finally asked.

He could feel Ziio tense for a moment, then relax and wrap her arms around his waist. "I needed to…think," she admitted. "But it was worth it. You really did look like a fool."

Haytham laughed and put her at arm's length. It had been fun—obnoxious, too—but fun.

"How did you know I was in the leaves?" Ziio asked.

Haytham shrugged. His Eagle Vision was supposed to be a secret, but even if he were to say, it was too difficult to explain. He settled for a half-explanation instead. "Sometimes, my eyes see differently," he tapped his brow.

Ziio cocked her head to the side in thought before smooshing Haytham's cheeks between her palms. She ignored his indignant squawk as she pulled his lower eyelids down with her thumbs and stared into the inky gray irises. "Hmm…" she murmured, Haytham's face captive in her hands.. "I've heard of…tales of people with special eyes. But I never imagined they would look so…" she wrinkled up her nose in bewilderment, "…normal."

Did she know about Eagle Vision? Haytham put the thought out of his mind. She was probably referring to the Mohawk mythology or something. He smiled and gently pulled her hands away. He kissed her palms. "Normal isn't always disappointing."

"But extraordinary is always fun," Ziio smirked again and glanced meaningfully at Haytham's groin. He blinked in surprise. That hadn't been what he meant! Still, a smug smile tugged his lips.

"Yes, sometimes it is."

* * *

**Week Two**

Over the next handful of days, Haytham and Ziio talked a lot. They told each other vague stories of their upbringing. They lightly touched on their long term goals in life. But they didn't get involved too deeply in business. Their conversations strayed on the innocent side; they discussed their favorite foods and hobbies and hunting techniques. Ziio told Haytham stories of her tribe's gods and goddesses. Haytham shared his vague view on atheism.

They kept far away from politics and land rights and the plight of her people. It was obvious that Ziio thought about it, but straying too close to the topic broke the mood into somber brooding. Likewise, Haytham's family was off-limits in conversation, and he didn't dare bring in the Templars and Assassins. For once, it was nice to be a normal person.

Yes, he was huddled in a tent out in the wilderness, but it felt normal. He could laugh freely. He could smile and touch and talk. He didn't have to worry about an Assassin crawling from the shadows to slay him in the night. He didn't fret how to control the territory and bring it under his command. He didn't feel revenge burning up his heart like a dry leaf to the flame. He didn't have to wonder when he would be caught and hung for sodomy. But he did miss Holden. He spoke about him little, but even Ziio could tell when Haytham's mind was preoccupied with his friend.

"You're lost without him, aren't you?" Ziio asked one evening as they ate dinner.

Haytham blinked at her in confusion. He prompted for clarification.

Ziio rolled her eyes. "Your friend, that Jim Holden man. You're lost without him."

"Well, I wouldn't say THAT," Haytham blustered. "He's a friend and my closest comrade! Nothing more than that! He's nothing abnormal or special to me!"

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't insinuate that he WAS more than a friend."

"…Good! Because he's not, you know," Haytham took a bite of dinner. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "What brought that on?" he asked.

Ziio shrugged. "I was just thinking."

"About?"

"About…no, you wouldn't like to hear it," she shook her head.

Haytham rolled his eyes and prompted her again. She wasn't one to be so hesitant. Normally, Ziio's words were straightforward and direct. If she was skirting around her thought, it must have been unpleasant. But even if it wasn't something he would be delighted to hear, his curiosity was getting the better of him. He liked learning how Ziio's mind ticked. She was intriguing and spirited, even if her blunt, opinionated nature seemed to overwhelm her grace.

She frowned for a moment and almost seemed to pick her words carefully. Instead, she outright blurted her words. "You do not confront your problems."

Haytham raised a brow. Of all things, he was not expecting such a criticism. "How so? I fight oppressors who seek to destroy this world one facet at a time. I fight for peace."

"Yes, you fight external threats. Braddock, the slavers, the white opportunists, you fight them all! But you don't fight…yourself," she tapped her chest as if to clarify. She was searching for the right word. "You have problems in here, but you don't fix them. You don't look at them. Instead, you only look at everything outside of you. And while that's noble in a way, you're ultimately damning yourself."

"…And what makes you think that?" Haytham couldn't keep the chill from his voice. Fortunately, Ziio was unfazed.

"Jim Holden. You speak so fondly of him and it's obvious that you rely on him. But since you're in the Colonies and he is still in England, you're lost. You disregard your emotions and bottle them up tightly. I don't know what becomes of them after that, but it almost seems like they…like they die. You hold back your feelings instead of acting on them or understanding them, and then they wither and die."

"I think that you may be misinterpreting self-control," Haytham sighed. She had been right; this was one hell of a can of worms. "Things like…'feelings' have a specific place and time to exist. What you refer to as 'disregarding' I call 'controlling'. I control myself and whatever errant emotions I may have. It's…only proper."

"Call it what you will, but the point is that you don't fix it," Ziio shook her head. "And if you refuse to confront your problems, then they will only get worse. They'll fester and ooze like an open wound. They will infect your spirit and poison your blood until they consume your humanity and strip you down to your bones. I have seen it; men consumed with revenge falling to their own rage. Victims of violent crimes can potentially become the perpetrators they despise. The only way to keep that from happening is to address your problems and fix them."

Haytham's lips thinned and he set his makeshift plate aside. He couldn't help but remember Birch's hands on his body or the whispered lies of love in his ear. He wanted to kill Reginald, he really did, but he didn't know if he could. During his campaign with Braddock, Haytham had fought with himself—torn between fleeing back to his Grandmaster's warm, cloying embrace, and throwing his self to the wolves of the world. But Holden had helped him, right? Holden had comforted Haytham when the nightmares were too much or when his heart felt like it was sinking in the ocean. Holden kept him afloat and surrounded by light. Surely Haytham was better now. And there was certainly no way, whatsoever, in this life or the next, that he would be a pedophile like Birch. He could never condemn someone to such debauchery.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

But his father's murderer—ah, now that was an attainable goal. While it was still far-fetched, considering how few leads he'd had in the past decade, he still held onto the vain hope that he could avenge his family and rescue his sister. Becoming the Grandmaster in the Colonies was only small detour. He couldn't forget his true goal, even if it did seem considerably less important than creating a new Rite.

"You would have me forget about my father's murderers? You would have me abandon my sister's plight?" Haytham frowned.

Ziio sighed. "No."

"Then what would you have me do?"

"…I don't know," Ziio caught his eyes fiercely. She would not be blamed for Haytham taking insult. "I don't have that answer. It was just an observation."

* * *

**Week Three**

For the next week, Haytham fretted and brooded silently. He didn't like the idea of ignoring his inner turmoil, but he also had a difficult time pinpointing exactly what it was. Perhaps one of the more straightforward problems was his…sexuality.

Ziio was, in short, amazing. She was strong and wild and fierce by nature, but her intensity always carried to the blankets. She was demanding and willful, ordering Haytham to fuck her harder, faster, smoother, and better at every turn. Even though part of him balked at the demands, he couldn't help the toe-curling thrill it gave him to carry them out. When she told him to lick, he would lick. When she told him to suck, he would suck. And when she told him to slam into her molten core, he would more than happily oblige. She tasted so sweet and exotic and robust. She felt soft yet resilient beneath his fingertips. Ziio was perfect, from the freckles on her nose, to the curve of her naval, to her moist, swollen clit. But despite his obvious attraction, Haytham also yearned for something…different.

He missed Holden. He wanted to grasp his friend's cock and pump it and lick the head and watch the pre-cum roll out like tears. He wanted to finger him open and plunge into his willing hole and make him scream and beg for more as his dick bobbed in time with every thrust. But Holden was across an ocean and he had made it abundantly clear that Haytham wasn't supposed to think of him that way anymore. Haytham was supposed to find a woman.

He found Ziio, of course, but he still couldn't shake his desire for men. It was disgusting. His mouth would practically water when he thought of a thick, erect penis. THAT was not an acceptable reaction. He should be horrified. He should be revolted. Under no circumstances whatsoever should the thought of another man's erection make him weak in the knees.

He thought of Charles often when Ziio was off hunting or gathering berries (Haytham was hopeless at differentiating the poisonous ones from the safe ones).

Charles was eager and attractive. He was strong-shouldered and willing to work for his rank. He was loyal and lovely and such a good student. Haytham had spent many a night imagining indecent activities with his assistant. Such fantasies often involved a lot of oil, a gag, and an evening of rigorous gyration. He wanted Charles as he wanted Holden.

But that was wrong, wasn't it?

_'We are all villains.'_

Haytham shuddered and determined to keep his hand away from his groin whilst thinking of Charles. Unfortunately, his mind had another idea. Haytham fell asleep whilst thinking of his favorite subordinate and Ziio.

_Haytham awoke to soft, butterfly kisses against his cheek. It tickled, like a moustache. He turned his head slightly and smiled at Charles. How did Haytham get back to his room at the Green Dragon and why was Charles in bed with him? It didn't matter. Haytham couldn't care as he reached out to untie his subordinate's cravat and slide his hands down his waistcoat._

_He missed this. He wanted this._

"_Master Kenway…" Charles breathed. "What if they catch us?"_

"_Don't worry, Charles," Haytham purred. "They won't."_

_Charles' breath hitched as Haytham kissed and nipped at his exposed neck. He expertly removed his subordinate's waistcoat and undershirt. Haytham's fingers spread through the thick patch of curls on Charles' chest, seeking out a pert nipple and giving it a playful squeeze. Charles let out an unmanly whine and grabbed tightly to Haytham's shoulders._

"_S-sir!" he husked. "Please, please let me…"_

_Haytham didn't need to be asked twice. He was suddenly naked (when were his clothes removed?) and his cock bobbed awkwardly as he slid back onto the bed. Charles leaned over him, humming pleasantly and holding himself up with shaky arms as he kissed Haytham. The younger Templar licked his way down Haytham's chest and belly, pausing only to trace his abdominal muscles and his hipbone with a talented tongue. Charles was good with his mouth, what with how he spun lies into gold. It was only natural that he would be excellent at giving head._

_Haytham moaned freely and threaded his fingers through Charles' hair. His subordinate sucked him in deep and full, with more grace than even the most talented whore. He bobbed his head and fondled Haytham's balls. His fingers, already slick, found the pucker of Haytham's ass and gently plunged in._

_Haytham gasped, arching his back and cursing as he spread his legs further._

"_Oh GOD, Charles!" Haytham cried. The spot inside of him lit like a flame, making him groan and arch his hips into the willing mouth._

_Haytham looked down, his face and chest flushed in arousal. It wasn't Charles on his dick anymore. It was Ziio. Ziio was blowing him with her fingers buried to the hilt. She smiled around Haytham's cock and released it with an audible pop._

"_Take me, Haytham," she nuzzled his dick, allowing the precum and saliva to dribble against her cheek. "Bend me over and take me. Make me scream your name. Fuck me hard and deep," she pleaded._

_Haytham was about to sit up and oblige when he felt someone behind him, pulling him back down. It was Charles again. Haytham smiled and craned his head up to catch the Templar's lips. He tweaked one of Haytham's nipples and bit his lip._

"_Now Master Kenway, it's impolite to keep a lady waiting," Charles insisted._

_Haytham didn't need to be told again. He clambered to his knees and practically tackled Ziio. She was so wet that the sheets were damp with her desire and her thighs glistened with need. He touched her core and caressed the impossible heat. She shuddered as the rough pads of his fingertips grazed her swollen lips and engorged clit. Finally, he took the plunge, starting off with two fingers already. Ziio threw her head back and moaned. She thrust her hips against his hand, fucking herself on his digits with steady motions and soft gasps of pleasure._

_Haytham caught her nipple in his teeth and worried it. He grabbed onto his shoulders and demanded more. He added another finger, spreading her and petting the soft, wet walls of her pussy until she cried out again. This time, he withdrew his hand fully. Ziio glared at him and wrenched his head back by his hair._

"_You will obey me. You will fuck me until I tell you to stop," she demanded low and threatening. Haytham fought to keep his eyes from rolling in his head. He wanted to relinquish control; he wanted to be used like a toy. He nodded and she delivered a fierce, wet kiss._

_Haytham kneeled in front of the Native woman, taking in her marvelous body like a drink of cool water. Her ample chest was heaving with desire, her dusky nipples were perked and eager, and her pussy was dripping with juice. He lined up his cock, groaning at the heat, and fully sheathed himself in one thrust. Ziio screamed and clawed at the back of his neck, moaning unintelligibly in Mohawk as she ground her hips into his._

_He began thrusting, moaning, and trembling in ecstasy as he fucked Ziio. She cried out for him again and again, tightening her legs around his waist and rolling her hips in time. Haytham almost didn't notice Charles behind him until he felt the thick head of a penis rub against the crack of his arse. Haytham groaned._

"_I'm going to fuck you, Master Kenway," Charles husked against his ear. He rubbed his cock between Haytham's cheeks again, pressing the firm muscles together to clench around the hard organ._

"_Oh god yes! Fuck me, dammit! Fuck me!" Haytham begged. He didn't think that he said it out loud, but if the dark chuckle by his ear was any indication, he made his desire clear._

"_As you wish, Master Kenway," Charles slipped into Haytham's willing body without resistance._

_Haytham felt his ass spread. He felt the stimulation as his hips stuttered. He was so full and his dick was so hot and his breath was short with lust. Charles bent over him, driving him deeper into Ziio. They both cried out and begged for more._

"_Oh god! Oh god, Charles! Ziio!" Haytham cried out, his body trapped between two magnificent bodies. He pistoned himself back and forth, fucking Ziio with his cock and fucking himself on Charles. His mind was overloading and nothing mattered but the blinding pleasure._

_Then, he woke up._

Haytham jerked with a startled moan. He flipped the body atop him and rolled with it, ready to defend himself violently if need be.

Ziio, the real Ziio, yelped and cussed at him.

As Haytham came back to his senses, he frowned. Ziio was half naked and flushed. Her skirt was gone and her thighs were wet. Haytham's own breeches were still on, but undone and he was hanging out unceremoniously.

Oh.

Oh, it was a dream, but not a dream.

"I'm sorry," Haytham murmured, his grip slacking as he kissed Ziio on her lips. She smiled coyly at him and reciprocated.

"It's what I get for having sex with a sleeping warrior," she chuckled. Ziio smirked as she dragged her thigh against Haytham's exposed, weeping dick. He clenched his eyes and hissed, uncertain how long he would actually hold out.

Ziio pulled his head close and licked his ear. She worried the lobe momentarily before whispering into it, "I want to ride you…"

Haytham didn't argue. He knew that his fantasy with Charles and Ziio was a dream, but the real Ziio was here, in the flesh and ready for more. He nodded dumbly and rolled onto his back. Ziio wasted no time as she clambered atop him. She steadied his cock with one hand and slowly, with a low groan of satisfaction and her head thrown back, she impaled herself on his impressive length.

Haytham hissed and gripped her hips tightly. His balls were already threatening to draw up, but he couldn't ejaculate inside of her; he couldn't risk impregnation. But Ziio wasn't making it easy. She pumped her toned thighs steadily, rising and falling like the breath of a goddess. Haytham groaned and reached under her top to grope her chest. Her breasts were warm and full and her nipples were tight. He tweaked them, one at a time, and earning eager moans.

"Oh fuck, Ziio…" Haytham groaned loudly. The heat was amazing. Her pussy was clenching around him as she rode up and down. Her juices were dripping down his cock and catching in his pubic hair and their hips smacked wetly against each other as she slammed down again and again.

Ziio began moaning in Mohawk. She steadied herself with a hand on Haytham's chest. Her thighs were shaking and her breath was short and her face was flushed. Haytham reached with his free hand and rubbed her clit in small, firm circles. The engorged nub poked out from the fleshy hood, eager and pink. He rolled it between his calloused fingers and prodded at the tight ring of muscle where her cunt joined his cock. That was it. Ziio screamed and her hips stuttered. Her back bowed as she huddled over Haytham's chest, her mouth drawn into a perfect o and her disheveled hair falling across her sweaty forehead.

It took every ounce of Haytham's willpower to keep his orgasm at bay. The pressure around his cock made him groan with need, but he kept petting Ziio's clit, trying to drag as much pleasure from her as he could.

Finally, she shuddered one more time and suddenly remembered how to breathe. Her breasts heaved with every lungful of air as she gasped like a fish out of water. Trembling still, she climbed off of Haytham and crawled between his legs.

Haytham gave a needy whine, despite his self, and practically bucked his hips as she took a hold of him. It didn't take long—just a few jerks, a well-placed lick, and a sultry demand—and he came with a hoarse shout.

Ziio groaned and lapped at the semen. Even though she made a face, she drank every bit before languidly licking the tip one more time and crawling up his body. Haytham smiled—content and sated and boneless—as he cradled her against his chest. She nuzzled his damp neck a little as she caught her breath.

"What…what brought that on?" Haytham asked, even though he had already figured the answer. He felt Ziio grin against his neck. She pressed another kiss to his racing pulse.

"You were so pathetic that I couldn't help myself," she giggled.

Haytham rolled his eyes and held her tighter. There were worse things to wake up to. A beautiful woman eager to ride his dick was probably the best. He hummed in response and felt sleep tugging at his mind again. That had been nice, very nice. And it got his mind off of Charles and Holden. Yes, a partner with a vagina was much better than one with a penis, right? He rather enjoyed fucking Ziio.

"Haytham…?" Ziio was suddenly uncertain. He could feel her shoulders tense.

Haytham braced himself for awkward questions and grunted for her to continue. She frowned against his chest. "Who's Charles?" she asked. "Isn't that the name of one of your comrades?"

Haytham fought to keep his heart beat even. "It's no one, Ziio."

"Oh," another silence passed. "Are you attracted to…" her nose wrinkled against his shoulder. "…men?"

Haytham tried to keep the nervousness from his voice. "No! That's preposterous! Why would I want a man?! That's sick and wrong and could get me killed just for mentioning the idea!"

Ziio huffed. "You're lying."

"No, I'm just tired, Ziio. That's all," he fought down the strike of fear and nuzzled the top of her head. "I'd like to sleep now."

She seemed about to argue, but left it alone and nestled down with her arm draped over his chest.

"Fine... Just don't wake me up with another erection."

Haytham laughed.

* * *

Two evenings later saw Haytham lying outside of the tent. He held the amulet up to the sky and peered through the keyhole. It was such a small, insignificant thing to the naked eye, but he knew better. He knew that it was a rare relic of Those Who Came Before. Even if the cave didn't contain the treasure he imagined, he still knew that it was important. It had SOMETHING in it.

Ziio finally flopped down beside Haytham, soaking in the warm summer night. They had thought to go their separate ways, but whenever they spoke of it, they would find some excuse to remain. That's all it was—excuses. But even though Haytham knew better, he didn't care. He liked this. He liked living in the woods with this exotic, wonderful person. He enjoyed Ziio's company.

The Native woman reached up to touch the amulet, tracing the snake around the edge.

"It's called an oroboros," Haytham supplied. "A snake or serpent eating its own tail represents eternity and cyclicity."

Ziio traced the edge of the amulet, deep in thought. "To my people, it's reminiscent of something different and far more sinister. It's a prophecy."

Haytham raised a brow. "Do continue…"

She pursed her lips for a moment, hesitant to continue. But finally, she withdrew her fingers from the amulet.

"A long time ago, before the white men came, there was a prophecy. It spoke of a boy finding a sickly, weak, gold and silver, two headed serpent. The serpent made a glorious light show, one so beautiful and sad that the boy wanted to save the poor creature. He brought it back to his village and pleaded with the elders to keep it. They reluctantly agreed and helped the boy nurse it back to health. At first, the serpent only ate bugs and mosquitoes. But soon, it grew and required more sustenance. It ate rats and rabbits and raccoons, then dogs and elk and bears! Soon, it became so large that it broke out of its cage and ate the children of the village. Even then, it did not stop. The two headed serpent tore a path through the land, devouring trees and filling our rivers with disease and excrement. It would kill animals, but wouldn't stop to eat the corpses. It even bore holes in the sides of mountains and cracked the earth apart like an egg. Eventually, it turned to the sky and even tried to eat the air and the clouds. The world fell to ruin, and with nothing left to devour, the two headed serpent turned back to Kanien'kehá:ka. But as it arrived, it squabbled. The two heads couldn't decide which got to feed first, so it turned on itself. The gold head tried to devour the silver one and the silver head chewed the gold one from the inside out. But as it struggled, it thrashed the land. Arrows and sticks would not stop it. The rivers were too dry to drown it and the earth too broken to swallow it whole.

But, despite the destruction and lack of hope, there would be a savior. It's told that a small boy will arise from the broken ruins with a bow made from a willow and strung with the hair of the Clan Mothers. His arrow, a straight sapling with a white flint tip, will slay the monster. The two headed serpent will die, felled by a small creature fit to be a snack. The boy will climb on the dead foe's belly and cut it open and everything that the two headed serpent had eaten will return to its natural place in the world."

Ziio's voice fell quiet and Haytham mulled.

"At least it's only a story," he said.

Ziio scoffed and sat up. "It is not a story!" she snapped. "It is a prophecy, one that has already begun!"

Haytham raised an eyebrow and clutched the amulet in his hand. "Pardon me, but I don't see any giant snakes tearing through the countryside and devouring children."

"It is not a literal snake," she bit, "It is white men. White men came to our land, sick and weak and begging for mercy. We provided them shelter and food. We cared for them and taught them how to survive on our land. And what did they do? They brought us nothing but disease and war! They're killing our herds and poisoning our rivers! They're digging through mountains for gold and ripping apart our forests! The prophecy is already in motion!"

Haytham frowned at the unspoken accusation. "So you blame me for what others have done to your lands?"

Ziio paused and eventually shook her head. "Not expressly, no. You're different. But…but I hope that one day, if I cannot save my people, then I can have a child who will slay the monster. I want a son who can string a willow bow and cast the white flinted arrow in the face of adversity. And if my son is not the one to slay the monster, I would hope it would be his son. Or the one after. Or the one after. The cycle must end…That amulet is cursed."

Haytham looked at the amulet. Perhaps there was something more to the prophecy than drugged shamans? Perhaps it was a warning from Those Who Came Before.

"What is this amulet, Ziio?" he finally asked.

She scoffed again. "Why would I tell you?"

"So that I may ensure that it never falls into the wrong hands should it be dangerous."

She paused again and fiddled with the hem of her shawl.

"It is dangerous—but only as a whole. What you have there, that ring, it is only one piece."

Oh, now THAT caught Haytham's attention. He asked for her to continue and she did so grudgingly.

"The second half of the amulet is different; it is a small ball, similar to a miniature black apple. But when the two pieces are united, it only creates havoc and fear. Stories have been passed down from my people. We separated the two pieces long ago so that they may never find each other. We thought that neither piece would ever see Kanien'kehá:ka again, but we were wrong," she looked at Haytham, a mixture of anger and sorrow shimmering in her eyes. "You've brought this cursed relic back to our land. Now, we might all be doomed."

* * *

**Week Four**

Haytham sighed as he finished skinning another rabbit. He was bored, undoubtedly and completely bored. He was so bored, he was even debating visiting Boston again and checking in on his comrades; it had been awhile after all.

Ziio was busy with another mission—or so she claimed. Haytham doubted the sincerity of it, but she insisted that she would be gone for 6 to 7 days. He thought that he could take up the time to research the Precursor storehouse, but there were only so many cave paintings he could stare at in one day. Deciphering Native mythology was William's expertise, not his. And while venturing to Boston sounded like a mighty fine idea, he couldn't bring himself to pack up the camp in the childish hope that Ziio would return early.

He wasn't disappointed.

Ziio returned on the fifth day of her journey, worse for wear. Her mood was dour and her mind was obviously preoccupied. But whenever Haytham tried to ask what she was thinking about, she would deny that there was a problem. He thought to throw it in her face, to declare that now it was she who was dodging conflict, but it was unnecessary. He was an adult and he ought to act like one. But he did notice that she wasn't feeling well. Her hand kept absently touching her belly.

"Are you in pain?" he asked after dinner.

Ziio started, then forced her hand away from her stomach. "It must have been something I ate. Nothing to worry about."

Haytham thought to argue, but why would Ziio lie to him about a stomachache? He shrugged and accepted the excuse. The next day, she went hunting earlier than usual. That was when Charles encountered the camp. That was when it fell apart.

As soon as Charles mentioned Edward Braddock, passive aggressive as it was, Haytham wished desperately to stop him. Ziio was close. He could feel it. But he couldn't give Charles the satisfaction of lording over him and requesting that they speak later. The damage was already done. The Order was mentioned and his transgressions had been brought to light. Had Charles known that Ziio was there, waiting in the trees? He must have—after all, he was Haytham's pupil. Haytham felt the rage in his gut churn and give way to fear. He swallowed it down. Now was not the time for feelings.

Ziio was a storm. Her face was thunder and her words were sharp as lightening.

"You lied to me. You told me he was dead!" she bit at Haytham.

"Yes, but Braddock's wound was fatal! I know how much you hate him, but I did not spare his life by any means and I certainly wouldn't have lied unless it was for good cause," Haytham tried to salvage what he could. Yet all he felt was Ziio slipping through his fingers like water. She touched her belly again.

"If you lied to me once, then I should expect you'll lie again _Templar!_" her face contorted in fury and Haytham was taken aback by her ferocity as much as her words.

"How do you—" he tried.

"You lied to me! You never told me you were a Templar!" she spat.

"I never claimed otherwise!" Haytham roared. How did she know about Templars? If that was the case, did that mean she was familiar with the Assassins, too? Had she, this whole time, been expecting Haytham to be an Assassin? His gut twisted with regret. He shouldn't have done this. He should've never gotten so close to her.

She accused him of trying to steal her land. His denials fell upon deaf ears.

"You led me on! You let me trust you!" tears welled in her eyes, but refused to fall. She drew her sword and pointed it at him.

Haytham held up his hands in surrender. He didn't want to fight her. He couldn't fight her. "…So I take it you're allied with the Assassins," his voice shook with a sadness he didn't know how to feel.

She spat on the ground in response.

Haytham laughed. Of course. Of course it always boiled back down to that, didn't it? Templars and Assassins were always going to jeopardize the world. Haytham was hollow. He couldn't win. He couldn't find happiness and contentment and love. That sort of lifestyle wasn't meant for him. He was born an Assassin and molded into a Templar by monsters and men alike. Ziio wasn't meant for someone like him. She deserved better. He could never be as amazing as her.

"Leave!" she screamed, the corners of her mouth twitching in sorrow. "Leave this place and never return. For, if you do, I will tear out your heart with my own two hands and feed it to the wolves!"

Haytham tried to talk sense into her. He really did try. But her rage was too strong. It was too encompassing and unrelenting. He hung his head in defeat.

"Swear it!" she shouted.

Haytham felt his heart hollow and his stomach seize. His fists clenched at his side as emptiness flooded his chest. It would be easier to leave rather than fight. Ziio wouldn't listen to him, not after he already broke her trust. As a Templar, he couldn't even begin to mend their shattered relationship. Why bother even trying? He could move on. He could leave and pretend that Ziio never existed. Ziio was right; it really was in his nature to succumb so easily to conflicts within his heart.

"As you wish…" he conceded.

But she would never get to see what kind of man he could become, and he wasn't certain it was worth trying anymore. She turned her back, sheathing her sword with shaking hands, and climbed back into the trees.

They were finished.

* * *

**Crimmy Comments:** The Two Headed Serpent prophecy is actually a real Iroquois prophecy. D: I couldn't find a date was first written, but it was a long time ago. There are a bunch of versions just from Google alone. They have minor variations, but they're basically the same prophecy.


	4. Charles Lee

**Chapter Specific Pairings: **Haytham Kenway/Charles Lee

**Chapter Specific Warnings: **Frotting, Piece of Eden shenanigans, mild sexual violence

* * *

**Ch. 4**

**Charles Lee**

Haytham knew that there was something special about Charles from the beginning. He didn't know if it was the exuberant, almost puppyish enthusiasm that was so enthralling, his intellect, or his utter willingness to please that had Haytham taking as shine to him almost immediately. The man was so eager to become part of something more, something bigger than his self. He had a higher calling in this world than marching alongside Braddock until cannons or muskets or poor leadership took him. He yearned for organization and order in his life, and the military was proving to be inefficient. Charles Lee was born to be a Templar.

So as Haytham slipped the Templar ring onto Charles' hand, he knew that the metal cross had finally found a worthy owner.

And Haytham was not disappointed.

Over the years, Charles had been a magnificent asset to his cause. He killed and sabotaged and infiltrated with a mere command, either written or verbal or implied. And it was obvious, even to Haytham, that the soldier simply adored his new leader. On more than one occasion, Haytham had been tempted to take advantage of such willingness. How easy it would be to command Charles to his knees! He was so eager to please, such a pliant little sapling, that Haytham was certain that Charles would easily bend to his whim. Dark whispers in his mind encouraged him to succumb to his needs and simply _take_ what he wanted from the new Templar.

While sparring with Charles, Haytham would allow himself the obscene pleasure of standing too close, or touching his neck or shoulder or waist for far too long to be appropriate. He would pin his subordinate beneath him, using his full body weight to trap and straddle the soldier in place. It was almost a game between them, one that Charles knowingly played. He would spread his knees a little wider than necessary or bare his throat coyly, just so he could watch the hunger in Haytham's eyes.

But when Haytham's hand lingered or his hot breath was too close to Charles' ear, those pale eyes would turn to Haytham, seeking permission and validation. They prayed for Haytham to quench Charles' thirst.

They were watery and almost gray under the right light, with creases around the lids forming from a lifetime of frowning. Though Charles was far from naïve or innocent, though Charles wasn't a victim of Haytham's lust, those blue hues made Haytham's heart jump with grief and horror every time. Haytham always ceased his advances before they went too far. Usually, after finding himself rattled to the bone, he would scoop himself up and right his clothing, his posture and tone concealing the shaken soul within. He would dismiss Charles, reminding him to watch his footwork for next time, and then whisk away to his own quarters under the pretense of impending paperwork. Finally, when he was alone and the doors and shutters locked, Haytham would fold his hands around his head and wonder, not for the first time, just what was wrong with him.

Had Haytham looked upon Reginald Birch with such a wondrous, confused gaze as the elder Templar had violated him? Had he somehow brought it upon himself? He must have. He must have done something to deserve such treatment. But no, that wasn't right. Holden had promised him that it wasn't his fault. _It wasn't his fault, dammit._ The blame lay with Birch and Birch alone.

The nightmares had faded over the years, and the pain and fear faded right along with them. But still, the dull reminder of that confusion, of the tumult of emotion fit to drive a lad insane, remained ingrained in his mind. If Birch had obtained the willpower to resist such a young boy, then what kind of man would Haytham be today? Would he still fancy men or would he be chasing skirts thrice as much? Would he even be a Grandmaster Templar had he not bared his backside to his mentor decades ago?

One night, as he was caught in the tide of his own self-loathing, there was a knock at his door. Haytham froze at his desk, hoping and wishing that the interloper would give up and leave. He thought to pretend to be asleep or not present, but the light from his lantern would give him away. Maybe if he just didn't respond…

"Master Kenway, sir, my apologies for bothering you at this late hour, but I… feel that I must speak to you." It was Charles. Dammit, Charles was outside his door and he wanted to talk. Didn't he know that there was nothing to talk about!

"Is it urgent?" Haytham clipped.

He heard his Templar shifting uncomfortably outside the door. In his mind's eye, he could imagine Charles taking extra measures to square his shoulders and present his best face to authority. "No, sir. But I believe that it is important," he replied as politely as possible.

Haytham didn't know why he decided to get up and unlock the door, but before he could think about it, he had smoothly risen and let Charles into his study.

Charles politely entered the room, his eyes flicking to the desk. Haytham had mentioned that he needed to finish some paperwork, but his desk was clear and his quill was dry. Charles noticed, but said nothing.

Haytham closed the door behind his friend and clasped his hands behind his back. With his chin held high and his tone smooth and even, he asked, "What is so important that you must bother me?"

Charles did his best not to flinch at the harshness. "I must apologize, Master Kenway. As of late, I have noticed that my lack of finesse during our sparring sessions has disgusted you. It was never my intent to be such an inferior opponent, but I must let you know that I will continue to try my best. I will achieve your standards, but it may take time. I implore you, Master Kenway, that you please bear with my substandard skills until then. I won't disappoint you, sir."

Haytham narrowed his eyes at Charles. Damn him and his way with words. They both knew that this conversation had nothing to do with Charles' fighting competence. But perhaps this was Charles' way of second-guessing himself.

"I am aware of that," Haytham replied, clenching his hands behind his back to keep from reaching out to his friend. "Your skills will improve in time, Charles, and I am willing to see that through. Is that all?"

Charles hesitated again as words momentarily escaped him. He stepped closer to Haytham, purposefully invading the Grandmaster's space. It took all of Haytham's willpower to maintain his authority and keep from backing away. It was a test.

"I appreciate the effort that you put into educating me, Master Kenway," Charles continued advancing, his eyes—damn his eyes!—trying to convey a message that his words did not. "How can I repay your efforts?"

"How presumptuous of you, Charles…" Haytham growled. The other Templar faltered once more and Haytham could see him doubt. Perhaps Charles was wondering if he misjudged Haytham's sexual inclinations. He looked about to apologize, but the words withered on his tongue. Was it fear? Was it honest fear of what repercussions Haytham would bring upon him? Sodomy was an unnatural crime. They both knew it. They both knew the consequences. Haytham thought of Jim Holden.

_'It's not your fault.'_

Haytham couldn't say that he was thinking when he acted. He only knew that he didn't want Charles to feel guilty. Being attracted to men was wrong, but it wasn't Charles' fault. It wasn't _their_ fault.

Without his mind's consent, Haytham latched onto Charles' lapels and threw him against the oak door. Immediately, he surged against the younger Templar and forced their mouths together in a demanding, ravenous kiss. Unsurprisingly, Charles reciprocated enthusiastically, parting his lips to invite his superior in. Their tongues entwined and Charles made a deep, throaty whine as he arched into Haytham. The Grandmaster growled and pressed harder against Charles, his body more than flush against the other man. His cock stirred in his trousers and his hand wandered briefly over Charles' side.

A tightness in his chest accompanied the constriction in his breeches. He was supposed to find a wife. He needed to embellish his charade as a normal civilian and settle down and have children. He couldn't drag Charles into his misfortune.

Just as Haytham began to lose himself in his Charles' warm lips, he clenched his fist and punched the oak door hard enough to make the entire frame rattle.

Charles gasped, eyes wide and startled as Haytham angrily pushed away from him. The younger man kept his back to the door as he watched the Grandmaster stalk away in frustration.

"M-Master Kenway…wh—" Charles began.

"Get out," Haytham ordered. His erection withered as his own nails bit into the palms of his hands. "We must focus on our mission. We need to find a convoy to track within the week."

Charles righted his cravat, his hurt buried beneath an unreadable façade. "Yes, sir. But what about—"

"Speak of this to no one, Charles. Now get out." Haytham snarled as he gripped the edge of his desk, his shoulders tight and his back to his subordinate. "That's an order."

Charles made a strangled choke of a sound, but without another moment's hesitation, he politely left his Grandmaster's side. The door clicked shut softly, masking the rage and hurt both men held, writhing, in their chests.

* * *

Things changed between the two Templars, though not necessarily for the worst. Charles was still determined to prove his worth to Haytham, even when the Grandmaster had decided to live with Ziio for a delightful month. Haytham still must have still been pining as well as he indulged in indecent fantasies and wet dreams involving his second-in-command. The younger Templar was resourceful and competent in Haytham's absence. He mediated Templar superiority amidst the French and Indian war and spied on internal affairs. Charles even began working alongside some Mohawk tribes to infiltrate and gain intelligence on the Assassin influence in the Colonies. He was an invaluable ally. But of course, the jealousy and desire remained.

Haytham saw the envy in Charles' eyes whenever he mentioned of Ziio and the utter _triumph_ was pasted all over Charles' face when Haytham moved back into town only a day after their confrontation in the woods. Charles had known that Ziio was there, watching and listening. He had baited them both and part of Haytham knew that he could never forgive his friend for sabotaging his relationship. At least Haytham knew that Holden wouldn't leave him because of some misunderstanding.

Charles and Jim Holden shared many attributes. Both were eager to please and obedient. They were excellent fighters, made better under Haytham's tutelage, and they were both sodomites. But Charles could never be like Holden. He could never light up a room the way that Holden's smile did, or make his companion laugh with a silly joke or side-remark. And he could never save Haytham from himself.

Holden had promised that he would never let Haytham become a beast like Reginald Birch. But Jim Holden was across an ocean, and before long, he was in a place that Haytham couldn't reach by ship or horseback or foot. Holden was dead.

When Haytham first returned to the Colonies, Charles knew that something was wrong. It wasn't just the slight wince when the Grandmaster turned his torso a certain way and it wasn't just the somber grimace he wore constantly. Something had broken within Haytham, and Charles knew.

Haytham changed.

The Grandmaster was more rigid in his beliefs than ever—that the world could only prosper under strict, rigorous, tightly reined control. After Charles and the others had rounded up the surplus of information on the Assassins during his absence, taking the Colonies was simple. He shattered what was left of the Assassin influence and brought it to its knees. The coup was meticulous and methodical, as if he were balancing his accounts with blood instead of ink. He was relentless and violent and part of that genuinely scared Charles as much as it thrilled him. But to say that Haytham brought his _wrath_ upon the land would be wrong. The Grandmaster did not act out of emotion. There was no rage or unanswered fury. He did not kill the Assassins for revenge or over petty squabbles. Haytham acted only on cold, calculated logic. His only folly was sparing the Mentor's life, but even then, it was not out of grace. Achilles served as an example.

As soon as the Assassins were eradicated like a bad pest, Haytham sent word to the British Rite that he needed a competent, well-trained Templar to help him control the Spanish territories rising west of the Colonies in light of the French and Indian war. He was only one man and he couldn't be in two places at once. And while he thought to send Charles or one of the Templars in his inner circle, he didn't want to risk upsetting the delicate balance that they had already attained.

In the meantime, with the land under the Templar's shadow, Haytham continued to research Those Who Came Before. Ziio had mentioned that the amulet had two pieces. Although she had warned that the pieces should never be reunited, Haytham didn't care. It was a weapon. It had to be a weapon. And if it was something that he could gather, then he should. It wouldn't do to have the scraps of Assassins, likely still hiding in the cracks like vermin, get to it first. And if he could use it to further his own cause, then it would be worth it. He had stolen several of the Assassins' documentations and he pored over them like a priest seeking retribution in a Bible. After many sleepless nights, he found the information he was doggedly pursuing; the second part of the amulet was real. Problematically, it went missing several years ago. In fact, the Assassins documented the thing moving as if it had a life of its own, as if it had sprouted legs and walked out from under their noses. How ridiculous! They just hadn't been able to control it. But Haytham would be able to. He would keep it and covet it and use it only for the Templar cause.

Late one evening, while Haytham had been writing in his journal again (something that he had been avoiding since Holden…passed) a rapt knock at his door drew his attention. He placed a blotting sheet within the pages, hoping that it wouldn't smear, and snapped the book shut. Ah yes, the Grandmaster of the British Rite had sent word that an ally would be along.

"Enter," he called as he folded his hands on the desk.

Charles politely swung the door open and ushered the British Templar inside. Haytham's hands balled into tight fists and he felt his face pale at the sight.

"Grandmaster Kenway, may I introduce our Brother, Harold Smith," Charles professionally introduced.

Harold Smith grinned widely and nodded his head to Haytham. He had lost a few more teeth and gained more than a few pounds in recent years and his blond hair was thinning and receding something awful. "Long time, no see, _Grandmaster_ Kenway," he mocked.

Haytham's lips thinned and he stood, maintaining a perfect composure and an even voice. "Yes, it has been a long time, Harold," he replied, withholding the tension from his voice. He could never forget this man; he could never forget those hungry eyes or that condescending tone or the feel of his hands violating his body or the cock throttling up his ass. Haytham would never forget.

Charles blinked in slight confusion. "My apologies, gentlemen. I didn't know that you knew each other…"

Haytham waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter. Welcome to the Colonies, Harold. I trust that your stay will be short-lived and uneventful. Charles will tend to your lodging and you will be briefed on your mission in the morning."

"Aw, you don't wanna drink with me?" Harold pretended to be vaguely offended. "I already sent a letter back to the British Rite telling 'em I've arrived, so we've got a loooong time to catch up on old memories, Haytham."

"That's _Grandmaster_ to you, Harold. And no, I have better things to do," he sniffed and motioned to the door. "May the Father of Understanding guide us."

Charles, sensing the obvious tension, ushered Harold Smith out of the room, but not before the older Templar managed to reply. "Yes, Grandmaster, may the Father of Understanding guide us."

Haytham listened intently as they walked smartly down the hall and descended the staircase. It wasn't until one of the servants bade them goodbye and the front door shut that Haytham allowed himself to fall. He immediately crumbled into his chair, his arms shaking and his brow sweating. Every time he closed his eyes, he was bombarded with memories of his brief, but horrendous experience with Harold Smith. He thought that he had forgotten what it felt like for the Templar to grope him and pin him and slam into him relentlessly, but his mind ignited all of those faded recollections with a vengeance. He shivered in disgust and his stomach rolled and rebelled.

Haytham barely made it to the privy down the hall before he vomited.

* * *

A few hours later, Haytham was staring out of the window in his chambers. The panes were open and the candle on his nightstand flickered angrily at the cold breeze. He hadn't bothered getting ready for bed; he knew that sleep would not come to him tonight. He had tried to read and research more about the relic, but he could not focus. He could only wait for the sun to rise.

Unexpectedly, he heard hoofbeats clop along the path to his home. At first, he had an irrational fear that it might be Harold Smith, but through the open window, he heard Charles talking to the night watchman instead.

"I must speak to Master Kenway!" Charles' voice was clenched with anger.

"I can't allow that, sir. It's late and the Master needs his rest," the night man urged.

"Let me in _**now**_," Charles demanded. The watchman must have finally conceded because Haytham heard the back door opening quietly and Charles slipped inside. He listened to the man move almost silently through the hallways, as not to wake the servants. He first stopped outside of Haytham's study, but upon noticing that the Grandmaster wasn't there, he continued to Haytham's quarters. He didn't get the chance to knock before Haytham called him in.

"You may enter, Charles."

The Templar didn't hesitate this time. He entered the room and gently closed the door behind him. His body was tense and shaking and his face was an awful puce.

"Sir, I believe that our Brothers from the British Rite must be playing some sort of prank on you," Charles started, fighting to keep his voice under control. "Harold Smith is a joke of a man! I refuse to believe that contemptible worm is a worthy Templar!"

"You don't say." Haytham chuckled dryly, his back still to Charles as he gazed out the window. "What brought this on?"

"He was slandering you and your upbringing, Sir! He said that the late Grandmaster Birch, your very mentor, was a pedophile and sodomite. He went on to spout utter, VILE nonsense about Grandmaster Birch converting _you_ to such awful delinquencies before you came to the Colonies! He even had the **NERVE** to claim that you murdered the Grandmaster while you were in Europe! That idiot! That son of a WHORE! I should have CUT OUT his libelous tongue and FED it to him!" Charles snarled, his voice shaking with indignation. He would've been yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs if not for the sleeping servants. They couldn't afford an audience.

Haytham felt his pulse skip unpleasantly as his stomach soured again. He swallowed and finally turned away from the window to face Charles. His friend was disheveled. He sported a black eye and a few specks of blood had dried onto his cravat.

Haytham narrowed his eyes and inspected him. "Did he attack you, Charles? Are you injured?" he questioned fiercely. Against his better judgment, he reached up to gently caress Charles' bruised and swelling cheekbone. If touching the sensitive wound hurt, then Charles' bewilderment outweighed the pain.

"No, Sir. It's just a black eye," he replied with a savage grin. "But I did teach him a thing or two about insulting our Grandmaster. He'll be wearing our mark on his cheek for the rest of his miserable life!" Charles held up his right fist. His knuckles were bruised and scraped open, but more importantly, the Templar ring on his finger was coated in dry blood.

"…How soon will he be able to travel?" Haytham inquired.

"Probably not for a few days at best," Charles frowned. "I did lay into him pretty good before dropping him at the inn like the shit that he is! He'll require a doctor to stich the wound his face, but I hope he gets an infection in the meantime. Such scum deserves it."

Haytham nodded. Although he wanted Harold Smith out of the Colonies as quickly as possible, he was still pleased that Charles hurt the bastard enough to lay him up for a day or two. Though, he wished that HE had been the one to beat the shit out of Smith. Oh, revenge would be so easy. He had already murdered John Harrison, and Reginald had met his end like a pig on a spit. Harold Smith was all that remained of Haytham's past trauma.

"Sir," Charles started again, his thick brow drawn suspiciously. "That fat bastard wasn't…he _was_ lying, correct?"

Haytham paused, a response dying before it even left his lips. Haytham understood that, above all else, Charles despised weakness, and what was weaker than his childhood? Haytham had been used and violated; he had only been a shadow of the leader that he was now. He thought to lie, but Charles knew how to read him. Perhaps it was too dangerous for Haytham to have gotten so close to his right-hand man.

"What do you think, Charles?" he finally managed to ask. Wouldn't it just be easier to deny all knowledge? Even if he didn't outright lie, he could still dance around the topic. He didn't have to go down this route.

Oh, but he wanted to. Some part of him sought Charles' opinion, even if it might drive the younger Templar away from him.

Haytham thought of his father—even though he had been an Assassin, Haytham still valued the quality of free thought that he imparted. It had suited him well. As a leader, he needed to think creatively and intuitively, and it was only fitting that he pass the skill onto Charles, despite the cost.

Charles paused in confusion, and then averted his eyes to the floor. "I don't know. I can't speak my mind on this matter because I didn't know Grandmaster Birch."

"But you know me. Do you think that I'm a pedophile and sodomite?" Haytham dared to ask, his lip rising in disgust.

"No! GOD, no!" Charles was quick to shake his head. "I know that you would never hurt a child like that! As a Templar, you frown upon unrighteous treatment of people, children included!"

"But as a sodomite…?" Haytham gripped onto Charles' wrist hard enough to make the other man wince.

"That doesn't matter! Who you are attracted to is your business and yours alone!" Charles snapped, refusing to meet his eyes. "You already know about…about my preferences, so I have no right to judge yours. Besides, it's of no concern to our goals as Templars!"

Another silence lapsed between them. Charles suspected the truth, but he would not say it. Would it be better to leave the Templar waiting and wondering forever? Haytham couldn't risk bringing more animosity to his doorstep. He had already denied his relationship with Ziio in the past and he saw what sort of resentment those lies and half-truths begot him. But to admit to the childhood abuse out loud again, hell, to even allude to what transpired was shameful!

Holden would've known what to do.

_'Sharing secrets is dangerous—downright and terribly so—but if you find the right person to trust, then it's the best thing ever.'_

'_Why is that?'_

'_Because it cures some of the loneliness, the kind right here,' Holden touched Haytham's forehead, 'and the kind in here,' he touched his chest, just over his heart._

"Reginald Birch was a monster. He lost the right to call himself a Templar years before he died," Haytham started, his voice suddenly dry as a desert. Charles didn't need to know this. He didn't need to know anything about this. But Haytham wanted him to know; he valued Charles' opinion and hoped against rationale that Charles wouldn't abandon his cause. No. The younger Templar was too strong and determined for that.

"Birch was a pedophile and a sodomite. He orchestrated my father's murder, my mother's imprisonment, my sister's enslavement, and my upbringing."

Charles' blue eyes darkened in confusion, and then widened in realization. Haytham couldn't stand to look at him. He turned to close the shutters on the window. Either Charles would storm off in disgust or else he'd stay. Haytham tried not to hold his breath. He already felt skinned alive and left to cure in the sun. The cards were on the table.

"Then…when you went to London again…you said that you had business to attend… Did you…?" Charles said slowly. "Did Birch...?"

Haytham didn't bother replying. Charles was a bright man. He already had it figured out.

"Why are you trusting me with this information, Sir?" Charles asked.

Haytham sighed. "You're my second-in-command, Charles. That is reason enough." Another half-truth, but one not so volatile.

Charles shifted his weight.

"…Sir… If Harold Smith is willing to divulge these secrets to me, then what will keep him from blabbing to someone else? I propose that we kill him, Master Kenway. It would be the wisest choice," Charles suggested.

"You would continue to fight by my side, even knowing that I have murdered a Grandmaster?" Haytham questioned. They both knew that the ensuing answer would determine Charles' fate.

"Yes. I trust your decisions, Master Kenway. If Grandmaster Birch really was so corrupt that you had to…eliminate him, then I believe such a fate was necessary. After all, you are a Grandmaster as well; you are fit to deliver the judgment that someone such as I cannot. What happened in the past has…passed. You have risen above adversity and personal horror to become the greatest leader this land has ever known. THAT is what we fight for—to rise above hardship and become something better by bringing order to ourselves and our world," Charles determined, his loyalty unwavering. "Now, Master Kenway, how would you order me to dispose of this Harold Smith?"

A wave of relief crashed through Haytham's chest. He turned to Charles and scrutinized him; he saw _through_ him. Charles was sincere. Something felt oddly liberated inside of him.

"I believe that we will pay him a visit in the morning, a non-lethal one, mind you," Haytham said as his shoulders relaxed. Charles raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Sir?"

"Revenge isn't as satisfying as it appears," Haytham stated bitterly, remembering how empty he felt as Birch's eyes glassed over. Even after his breath had stopped, it still felt as if he were mocking Haytham. Birch still won, having controlled Haytham's emotions to the end.

"As much as I would prefer to kill Harold, it simply isn't worth it. He's a worm, not a snake. If we kill him, then I'll have to send to the British Rite again and they may become…curious. If we act against him, then Harold Smith will win."

"What if he spreads this…scandal around town?"

"No one will believe him."

"So we should let him go?"

"Not necessarily," Haytham replied with a wry grimace.

Charles nodded. "Then…about our misunderstanding," he said, stepping towards his Grandmaster once more. "I apologize for my inappropriate assumptions, Master Kenway. Now that we are both…more knowledgeable, perhaps there is a way to reconcile."

It shouldn't have been the time for this. Haytham felt as if he had been ripped open and stretched like a piece of deerskin. Sand and salt grinded in his open wounds. But Charles held the promise of trust and safety in his hands. It was the balm to his wind-beaten soul.

It shouldn't have been the time for this, but Haytham's loins declared otherwise.

He closed the gap between them. "And what if I don't want such apologies?" he asked as he straightened the collar of Charles' coat. He trusted Charles, more than any other man, and that trust had not been misplaced.

"Then I hope that my continued loyalty would please you, Master Kenway," Charles said breathlessly, his hands glued to his sides to keep from reaching out to his idol.

Haytham hummed his approval and seemed to continue straightening Charles' cloak and waistcoat. It wouldn't have mattered much in a few minutes, but for the moment, it was an excuse to touch his friend in a way that he hadn't indulged in before.

Charles' breath hitched as Haytham's hands firmly, finally grabbed him about the waist to press their hips together. The elder Templar threaded his hand in Charles' hair and wrenched his head back.

"May the Father of Understanding guide us…" Haytham murmured against the other Templar's lips. Charles barely had the chance to mutter it back before their mouths pressed together in a heated kiss. Haytham didn't want to be plagued by old ghosts anymore. He'd rather make new memories and hope that they wouldn't be his downfall.

Haytham's palms slipped under Charles' coat, urging it off of his shoulders as he began to unbutton the man's waistcoat. Charles moaned quietly, happily, as he hesitantly reached up to cup Haytham's jaw. The Grandmaster grasped Charles' wrist and guided it to his side. There, it pet and felt the elder Templar with a fervent heat that had been withheld for far too long.

A few moments later had both men writhing on the bed, as they shucked off clothing and boots and cravats. Charles straddled Haytham's thighs and gazed with pure awe at the lovely form beneath him. Though Haytham was familiar with certain people's hungering expression, this gaze was different. Pure adoration shined in Charles' light blue eyes. His hands danced over the taut muscles and his fingers grazed the thick scar on Haytham's side. He scooted back a little to kiss it. Haytham chuckled and switched their positions. He spit into his palm and reached between them to stroke Charles' awakening dick. The younger man arched into the touch with an obscene gasp, no doubt eager to fulfill the fantasies he had been suppressing for so many years. Haytham grinned and mentally corrected himself. They BOTH were fulfilling suppressed fantasies. How many years had Haytham secretly hungered for Charles? It felt like an eternity with naught but oil on his hand and his imagination. But this was real.

"M-Master Kenway!" Charles whined, his hips shamelessly bucking into the touch as a flush spread over his neck and upper chest. Haytham leaned down to lick along the other man's collar bone, nipping lightly at the pale flesh and eliciting a string of hushed moans. Charles gripped Haytham's arm and rolled them both to the side.

"Not so hasty!" Charles panted, his cock already hard and dripping under Haytham's ministrations. He wanted to relish this moment, to savor it and draw it out for as long as possible. Haytham's fist already had Charles on edge, but he couldn't allow himself to orgasm. Not yet.

He rolled on top of Haytham again, much to the elder man's frustration, and kissed him sweetly on the jaw. "As much as I appreciate the attention, Master Kenway, I would prefer that this be for your pleasure, too. You deserve so much, and I can only give you so little."

The Grandmaster might have protested had Charles not picked that moment to grind his hips experimentally into Haytham's. A short gasp choked out of the Grandmaster's throat as he threw his head back against the pillow and bucked into the heat pinning him down. Charles grinned in triumph as Haytham cracked open an eye at him. It was permission. Although Haytham may have been beneath Charles, he only allowed such treatment because he _wanted_ to. After all, one must be IN control to give it. Charles repeated the motion, making the Grandmaster growl and grasp his waist firmly. Charles allowed Haytham to guide his hips with a satisfied smile twitching on his lips.

"Like that, Sir? Do you like it when I grind our cocks together?" Charles whispered into Haytham's ear, his hands gripping the pillows as he surged his hips against his elder's.

"Y-yes, Charles, just like that…!" was the breathless reply. It had been so long, far too long. A panicked voice in his head screamed that this was a bad idea, but the heat pooled in his lower belly didn't care. His body moved of its own accord, bucking against Charles' form. It felt so good to have another person atop him again, one so loyal and trustworthy that he could let go. He didn't realize how much he missed the sensations of a thick cock rubbing against his until Charles rutted against him once more.

"Let me take care of you, Master Kenway. I'll please you for as long as you'd like," Charles whispered fondly.

Haytham nodded and pressed harder on Charles' hips as he thrust his own upwards with a soft cry. Charles covered his lips in another sloppy kiss. Their teeth clacked together and Charles' moustache tickled his nose. They made indecent, slippery noises as they gyrated against one another, cocks pulsing with wanton heat. Charles wanted so desperately to reach his peak, but he wanted Haytham to fall first. He wanted to watch his Grandmaster cry out in pure ecstasy, to go rigid beneath him as he came. Such a gift would be more than Charles could have ever hoped to receive. The unflinching trust was nice, but to have that and Haytham's seed would be paradise.

He finally broke the kiss with Haytham and slid down the Templar's body until his swollen lips reached Haytham's cock. The Grandmaster threaded his hands in Charles' dark hair as the eager man suckled on the head of his dick. Charles swirled his tongue about, exploring the ridges and veins, and tasting every delicious inch that his mouth could find. The grip on his hair tightened and Haytham thrust his hips into the inviting warmth. Charles took in as much as he could as he fondled the Grandmaster's heavy balls.

"Master Kenway, come for me," he demanded as he nuzzled Haytham's dick, trailing sticky precum and saliva on his cheek. He sucked on the tip again, dipping his tongue against the leaking slit, before he felt Haytham's testicles draw up. Not a moment later, Haytham came with a muffled shout. Charles drank the load that shot down his throat, unwilling to waste even a drop of his Grandmaster's precious gift. He lathed the magnificent organ with his tongue until there was nothing left for Haytham to give.

The Grandmaster panted, his face flushed. Wordlessly, he pulled Charles up the bed and kissed him passionately. His nimble hand found his friend's neglected dick and he stroked at a breakneck speed. Charles moaned into the kiss, simply adoring the taste of Haytham's seed and mouth assaulting his tongue at once. He didn't want to fall over the precipice or orgasm, not so soon when it felt as if he had barely begun to appreciate Haytham's body, but the Grandmaster was relentless. It didn't take long for Charles to find his peak. With a long keen, he jerked his hips against Haytham's hand as thick jets of semen splattered their bellies. Charles slowly came down from his high and he sagged against his Grandmaster's sweaty chest.

Charles fought to say something intelligible, but words escaped him in favor of a satisfied groan.

* * *

The next morning, both men were refreshed and confident as they rode to the inn. Harold Smith had visited a doctor sometime in the night and his cheek was recently stitched, though one would be hard-pressed to know what part of his face belonged where. Charles hadn't exaggerated when said that he had beat the tar out of the British Templar.

"Ah, I see that your night went well," Haytham taunted as soon as the door to the room was closed.

"Go da 'ell, 'aythem," Smith slurred.

The Grandmaster backhanded Harold Smith casually, making the blond fool yelp and stumble onto his backside. Haytham crouched with a calm smile and gripped Smith's cheek hard enough to make the fresh stiches bulge.

"Let me clear something up for you, Harold. Your presence is most undesirable. You are little more than a **shit stain** of a man, much less a Templar. Now we are going to give you papers and a map. You are to follow this map west of the Colonies, where you are exiled. As of this moment, you are no longer welcome in my territory. If I hear that you've so much as put a toe into the Colonies after this week, then I will hunt you down personally and slice you from stem to stern. Your death will not be quick, Harold, oh no. If you disobey me now, I will do worse to you than you can possibly fathom," Haytham threatened calmly.

"Wh-wut you wan' me ta do?" Harold tried to slur again, his body shaking in fear. Haytham wasn't the fearful lad from before; he was a Templar Grandmaster.

Haytham bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the other Templar's face. Fresh blood oozed from between the stiches and Harold whined piteously. Killing him would be so easy…but the easy route wasn't always the right one.

If he exacted revenge, then he would lose himself. He would be one step closer to being just like Reginald. Some of Birch's words floated to his mind and he bared his teeth. He spoke the phrases that haunted his nightmares for years.

"Simple," Haytham replied, "I want you to obey—nothing more and nothing less."

Harold's swollen eyes tried to widen.

Haytham continued. "I will be sending you orders periodically from the Colonies and you are to fulfill them like a good little Templar. Do you understand?"

Haytham guided Harold's chin, making him nod against his will.

"Good!" The Grandmaster Templar finally released his subordinate. He wiped his bloody fingers on Harold Smith's waistcoat.

"Wy you sparing me now?" Harold tried to say. He didn't bother standing; he only gazed up at the Grandmaster through misshapen eyelids.

"You are not worth my blade, Harold. You're less than a man, less than a beast," Haytham folded his hands neatly behind his back as his lip twitched in disgust. "Charles will see you off. I believe that I've wasted quite enough time with you already."

Harold laughed hoarsely as Haytham began to walk out of the room. He called after him, his words still slurred, but intelligible. "Once you make a beast out of yourself, there's no going back to being a man, Haytham! How long can you keep up this charade? How long until you become a monster like me, Haytham!? How long!?"

Haytham kept walking.

* * *

Things went well after that. Haytham didn't hear from Harold again, but he did receive word from his subordinates that the fool had moved west as ordered. That was just as well. Haytham didn't need to kill Harold Smith, not when there were so many better things to devote his time to.

Haytham and Charles couldn't call themselves a couple. They were not lovers. But at times, during a stressful week or when work had been a bit slow and their blood a bit hot, the two Templars fucked. That's all it was; fucking. There were no words of love passed between them like naughty secrets and there was no time to ruminate on their actions. It was simply a bodily necessity that had to be sated.

Of course, Haytham assumed that Charles felt differently, but the younger Templar kept those emotions bottled up and tucked safely away. He remained an invaluable ally who sacrificed his time, blood, and energy to the Templar cause. Perhaps more importantly, he sacrificed everything he could for Haytham. While the Grandmaster was a vain man, he wasn't so prideful to believe that Charles' actions, his practical worshipping, was all for Haytham. Charles did it for himself as well. Their cause gave Charles the purpose he so craved.

The only thing that Charles clearly disapproved of was Haytham's research on Those Who Came Before.

It had started off innocently enough, but it soon grew into an obsession. Though Haytham didn't neglect his duties as Grandmaster, the little time he had outside of his Brothers was devoted to research. Haytham had initially brushed off Charles' concern as jealousy. Rather than spending a few stolen hours with his subordinate, tangled in the sheets, he was decoding old books and maps. It was only natural for Charles to feel slighted and replaced by musty paper and faded ink. But it couldn't have been an actual _problem_.

He was so close to uncovering the mystery behind the core of the amulet. He had diagrams and drawings and speculations on it, but actually finding the route it took across oceans and continents was proving more difficult.

Several months after the debacle with Harold Smith, Haytham decided to take a short break from his research and spend a few moments outside. It was late afternoon and the spring air was crisp, but inviting. He paced about the courtyard of his plantation, his hands clasped behind his back and his mind deep in thought.

Reginald Birch had been obsessed with Those Who Came Before. It had seemed ludicrous and silly for a man of his power and position to lose himself. But Haytham wasn't like that. Oh no, he couldn't _possibly_ be like that because he refused to become like his mentor. Holden had promised him that he'd never be like Birch. Besides, it wasn't Haytham's or Birch's fault that the information was so alluring! Haytham was only doing what was best for the order! He would find the relics, the Pieces of Eden, which the documents mentioned. He would crack the riddles like a hard-boiled egg and dig out the innards with a spoon. He would do whatever it took—_whatever it took—_to gain the power that the relics held and he would bring order to the world and her people. He could save everyone from themselves.

He touched the amulet around his neck unconsciously, his finger tracing the edge of it under his under clothing. Strange. The amulet was warm against his skin, like a piece of metal left out in the sun.

He frowned and pulled it out from under his cravat. It was glowing. The etched lines were a bright teal and the eyes of the oroboros snake glittered mischievously. His heart skipped a beat in excitement. The relic was reacting in a way it hadn't since the Precursor cave! No sooner than he began pondering the strange phenomena did something tap against the side of his boot. He ignored it at first, thinking it some pebble. But it happened again.

His pulse quickened. Something was wrong and unnatural. It called to him.

Haytham looked down.

A small, unassuming, black marble was tapping against the side of his boot.

_Tap tap! Taptap tap!_

He paused and watched it roll lazily onto the toe of his boot. It tried to scale his leg, like Charles' prized Pomeranian dogs.

Haytham could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. It called to him—not with words or gesture—but something called to him. He stooped and picked up the small marble. What was it? What sort of thing could move in such a manner on its own? He held it to his face and peered at the small etchings across the surface. They began glowing as well.

Haytham nearly dropped the thing with a surprised gasp. It was pulsing! The thing was warm and almost felt as if it was trying to wiggle out of his grasp. He could feel the heat of the amulet seep through his clothes and chest. He clenched the marble in his fist. It wiggled and writhed against his palm as it heated up as well. The pulsations synchronized with his heartbeat.

Suddenly, his fist magnetically flew to his chest, hitting it with a meaty thunk that nearly knocked Haytham off-balance. It pulled against his fingers, seeking out the amulet. Haytham heard his heart speed. He found it! This was the second piece of the Relic, he knew it! And he found it (or did it find him?)! But he didn't want to unite the pieces, not here in the open, not in his courtyard.

Haytham tried to pull his hand away from his chest with difficulty, as if invisible ropes were ratcheting between the marble and the amulet. He maintained it at a distance for a moment before it flew back and hit him again, this time with enough force to make him stumble. Haytham grunted and had the absurd realization that he must look a fool to anyone unfortunate enough to witness this. To an outsider, he would appear to be hitting himself in the chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

He realized with a fevered enthusiasm that the two pieces WANTED to be reunited! They were meant to be together and he was standing in the way of that. It didn't matter that he was out in the open or that he didn't have any notes in front of him. It didn't matter that part of his mind screamed and rebelled, begging for him not to do this. Nothing mattered except uniting the two pieces.

He uncurled his fingers slowly. The marble must have known his intentions—it didn't fight anymore.

He held his breath, his eyes alight and warm, and placed the marble in the center of the amulet.

Everything went white.

* * *

Someone shook him.

"Master Kenway! MASTER KENWAY!" the person yelled above him, voice frantic.

Haytham didn't know how much time had passed. Perhaps he had been gone for a few minutes or hours or days in the White Plane. He opened his eyes. He was still outside, in his courtyard, and on his back. No birds chirped from the well-manicured trees, but the sky was clear and the air was crisp and inviting. He hadn't left, at least not physically.

The amulet was safe under his shirt, still pulsating and warm and comforting.

"…Charles," he recognized, his voice rough as gravel and his stomach in knots.

"Master Kenway," the Templar breathed with relief. "I thought that…I…that you…" Charles paused to collect himself. "What happened? Are you ill?"

The first thoughts that came to Haytham's mind were lies. He was about to tell Charles that he had been napping or that he had fallen down somehow. (Why was he willing to lie without thought? What had happened? What was wrong with him?)

But he caught the lies on his lips before they fell. Charles was too intelligent for that. He wouldn't believe it for one moment.

"…I'm fine," was all that Haytham offered. He sat up, tenderly rubbed his head, and stood to brush himself off.

Charles' eyebrows furrowed. He was entirely unconvinced. "Sir…you were on the ground, motionless and pale. I couldn't wake you, no matter how much I yelled. Your pulse it was…different," Charles tried to convince him. "I'll send word to Benjamin. He could look you over, make certain that you're alri—"

"_I'm fine!_" Haytham snapped more forcefully than he intended.

Charles was taken aback. "Haytham…your eyes. There's something wrong with your eyes," he breathed.

Haytham blinked. They were warm, but they felt just fine. He glanced at Charles again with irritation clearly etched into his face.

Whatever his subordinate saw must have faded because Charles' expression changed from shock, to fear, and then to confusion. "N-nevermind. It's…It's gone. Must have been a trick of the light," Charles conceded uneasily.

"Will there be anything else?" Haytham demanded none too gently.

Charles shifted again. "I have those documents you requested. We can go upstairs, I'll have the servant bring up some tea, and we'll go over th—"

"Unnecessary," Haytham growled. "Just leave them outside my study. I'm busy."

With his hands clasped firmly behind his back, Haytham left no room for argument. He brushed briskly past Charles and headed towards his home.

Haytham had a lot of work to do.

* * *

Weeks passed. Haytham lost track of day and night and he couldn't remember the last time he needed food or rest. There was so much to do, so much information to sort through. He couldn't afford the time to stop, and thankfully, his body didn't seem to need it.

Charles knocked on his study door and smartly cleared his throat. "Master Kenway, are you well?" he called from the hallway. Damn him! He had been checking in on Haytham almost incessantly these few weeks! Haytham wanted to be angry, but he was almost done with his map. He wanted to show it to Charles, to see his subordinate enlightened. Haytham put a finishing touch on the page and responded almost feverishly.

"Yes, do come in, Charles!"

"…Sir, the door seems to be locked. Are you certain that you are well?"

Haytham tutted and finally stood up, he unlocked and unbolted the door to let his friend inside. Charles scrutinized him with a disapproving stare. Haytham's hair was frazzled, but still tied back in a ponytail and although he wore clean clothes, the dark circles under his eyes and the abnormally sallow skin spoke volumes.

"Master Kenway, you missed another meeting with our Brothers today," Charles started suspiciously, indignation lacing his voice. Haytham had never missed any of their little get-togethers before this month.

"That was today? Bah, then we will reschedule for another time. I've been far too busy to bother with going out," Haytham dismissed.

Charles frowned. "Since when has our cause been a 'bother' to you, Master Kenway?"

"Don't sound so bitter, Charles! I've found something of great importance, something that can aid our cause in a way that no simple meeting can!" Haytham spoke rapidly, as if energized from an unknown source.

"I've cracked it, Charles! I've finally found it!" he said. He scooped Charles into his arms and spun him around with abnormal strength. His subordinate stiffened and tried to pull away with a disgusted tick in his lip.

"Found what, Sir? A cure for your madness!?" Charles blustered as soon as he was back on his own feet, wary of the strange behavior.

"The key! The key to the key to the Precursor Site!" Haytham explained as if he were speaking to a small child, ignoring the insult as if it was an inconsiderable outburst.

"….Ah…ha…?" the other Templar raised a worried eyebrow. He could feel something off in the room, something wrong. Perhaps Haytham had unfortunately snapped? Charles sincerely hoped that it was just a bad side effect of stress. Haytham had always been strong and impossibly resilient. He couldn't afford to doubt his Grandmaster now. "Sir, perhaps you should rest. When was the last time that you ate or slept?"

Haytham thought about it for a moment, his demeanor still commanding an air of authority even behind his unruly appearance. "I suppose it's been close to five days now since I've napped and nearly three days since I last ate. Remarkable, no? To think that such a small device could fuel a human being for days without rest or sustenance!"

Charles was deeply concerned. Something was wrong, and it wasn't just Haytham's mental well-being. "Haytham, what device do you speak of? What is your discovery?" It must have had something to do with that day that Charles found Haytham motionless and prone in the courtyard. Ever since then, ever since that moment, Haytham had been different as a man possessed.

Haytham smirked. He held up the amulet and a small, black ball, no bigger than a musket round. Teal etchings glowed along the surface. Charles gasped. It was unnatural. It was _wrong_. "I found this. Or perhaps it found me, I haven't decided. But it seeks out the artifact, Charles. They go together!"

Haytham slid the circular amulet to one side of the desk and placed the marble on the other edge. The marble shifted as soon as Haytham removed his fingers and it rolled steadily towards the amulet. Haytham picked it up again and dropped it from the air. Instead of obeying gravity and falling straight down, the marble flew magnetically to the key.

Haytham rattled off the tales that Ziio told him about the amulet and some of the information he read. His words were jumbled and lacked sense, but Charles understood the gist. Thanks to the amulet, Haytham had made a discovery that could create a new world for the Templars. After a few more demonstrations, Haytham placed the marble in the center of the amulet.

"Look Charles! Our salvation!"

As soon as the marble settled, it began to gyrate through the air, defying gravity entirely. The amulet rotated on all axes and the ball rolled in place. It hummed like a fierce wind blowing through a crack in a door and made a noise like a coin spinning on metal. Blue light filled the room and Charles yelped in surprise. His comb-over was standing on end and the stray hairs on Haytham's head danced weightlessly in the air. Thin beams of blue danced along the walls and the rug until they finally stilled. The noise quieted, but it didn't stop. Haytham spun the key towards a blank wall.

"It's…it's a map…" Charles gasped in horror. A map, more perfect than any cartographer could draw, was projected onto the wall. It had all of the continents etched in such fine detail that Charles could hardly believe his eyes. This was wrong. There were small beacons of golden light. They were markers of some nature.

"These were relics of Those Who Came Before, Charles!" Haytham blinked owlishly. "I have reason to believe that each of these indicators mark other Pieces of Eden!" He tapped the air at each beacon as he spoke, eventually stopping on the one farthest northwest of the Colonies without touching the ocean.

"They are all powerful, more powerful than we can imagine because they were meant to control humanity! They're weapons, Charles! This one manipulates the will of men, bringing them the fabled order and obedience. This one creates illusions so realistic that they're tangible! This one grants the wielder a temporary immortality! But this one! Oh, this one is of particular interest. It appears to be a prototype device for some sort of time travel," Haytham said as he tapped the beacon again. Information immediately began streaming along the wall. Some of it was in English, but most were obscure symbols that Charles couldn't even begin to read. "Just think! We can go back in time to achieve our goals! We wouldn't even NEED the other relics at that point! We can eradicate the Assassins before they were even born and we can ensure a simple, controlled future for the entire world! It's bigger than just the Colonies, Charles, it's for the world!"

No! This was wrong! Charles recoiled. It was changing Haytham, whatever that damn thing was, it was wreaking havoc and changing his Grandmaster! The Piece of Eden was dragging Haytham into the depths of hell.

Charles backed away from his superior. "This is madness! I don't understand what that demonic device is, but look at what it's done to you! You're obsessed! You speak of altering time as if that was your God-given right! You're becoming a monster!"

Haytham scowled as the blue lights danced about the room, flitting over his dark expression in little bursts of teal. "No, it has done nothing **to** me so much as it has done something **for** me! If I could get that time controlling relic under our thumbs, then the Assassins would cease to exist!"

"DAMMIT! **YOU** would cease to exist! How can you possibly change time without eradicating yourself! You were born of an Assassin father! If he never existed, then you would never be born! Please, cease this madness and return to your senses, I implore you!" Charles all but begged. Fear clawed at his spine. He wanted to back away, to flee and never return, but he couldn't. Haytham was his Grandmaster and something more. He couldn't leave him like this.

"Coward!" Haytham sneered. "You would pass this opportunity?! Then fine! Leave if you will! But I will change things! Haven't you ever wanted to go back and do things differently, Charles?! Haven't you ever wondered what you would be like if certain people had never entered your life, if it had never been shattered beneath the incautious heel of some worthless bastard!?"

Charles pulled his lips back into a snarl. "Is THAT what this is about? Fixing your childhood? How ridiculous! You would use such a powerful relic for your own selfish means?! It's one thing to preach about it being for the good of the world, but now you just want it for YOURSELF!"

"No! I never said that's expressly what I would do with it, but that would be a side effect. Without Assassins, I may not have been born, and if I was never born, then Birch could never have raised me, and if Birch never raised me, then I could never become the beast like him!"

"Listen to yourself! YOU'RE MAD!" Charles bellowed. "If don't know the consequences of altering time! And even if you did manage something so insignificant as saving your damn father before he died, then I never would've met you! You never would've brought order to this land! The Colonies would not be better for missing you here and your sacrifice would have no meaning, no value!" Charles shook his head, trying to contain his rage and fear. "I cannot allow you to seek that Piece of Eden! It's too dangerous. There are too many unspoken factors and perils and you are not thinking clearly."

"Haytham," he started, holding out his hand, "give me the amulet!"

"You wouldn't save the world?" Haytham narrowed his eyes at Charles dangerously and clutched the amulet to his chest. The younger Templar squared his shoulders, readying for an attack as his skin prickled from tension.

"Not if it meant losing you, Sir."

Haytham laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, but rather a short bark that was harsh and suddenly breathless. "You don't want to lose me? How sentimental. You know nothing," he growled.

Without warning, Haytham launched himself at his subordinate. He wrestled the other man to the floor and straddled his hips whilst pinning his arms to his side. "I have been lost for _decades_ Charles. Ever since then, ever since Birch wrung all he could from me, I have been lost…" He claimed Charles' lips hungrily, nipping at them and sucking on them without permission or mercy as his hips ground lewdly against his friend's. "Perhaps I'll show you what it's like, then? To have your control stripped away and leave you with naught but your bare bones and a sore arse to show for it? Perhaps I should _take_ you as Birch did to me, to make you scream and cry and beg beneath me! Then maybe you'll wish for an alternate future as I do! Then maybe you'll finally share my vision for the world and realize what a godsend this amulet is!"

Charles shuddered as the blue lights in the room continued to spin. He breathed deep and found something whispering darkly in his mind like a soothing lullaby promising freedom from horror. It told him to give up. It told him to give in and let Haytham take what he wanted. It told him that he should be grateful, that he should be obedient. He couldn't fight anymore. Haytham's will was too strong and the thing kept whispering to him. Damn, it pissed him off! His nostrils flared in a mix of contentment and fury.

His pale eyes pierced Haytham's. It was only then that he noticed that Haytham's eyes were a different color. They were no longer the usual stormy gray, but had instead changed to an inhuman gold, like the eagle that he was named after. It was the same as that day when he found Haytham in the courtyard. He knew it hadn't been a trick of the light, and it wasn't now either. The amulet changed his Grandmaster.

But Haytham was still there—his Haytham. He could see it, beneath the unearthly glow.

"You're lost in your madness! But I will follow you to the ends of the earth and back again. You may hurt me, you may wreck me, you may punish me and ravage me and obliterate what respect that I have for you, but I will still follow you," Charles' voice shook with emotion. "But know that if you cross that line, if you become the **monster** that we have sworn to fight against, then I will be the one to end your life. I can't save you from yourself, but _I can save the rest of the world from you_."

Haytham stared at Charles, as if trying to comprehend something that was just out of his reach. He winced and Charles distantly noticed that the veins in Haytham's temples were glowing that same, strange blue as the amulet's light.

"Holden…Holden promised that he'd save me… That he'd keep me from becoming a beast like Reginald…" Haytham's voice shook, unnatural and deep.

Charles sneered. "Jim Holden is dead. You've got to save yourself now."

Haytham's expression shook and trembled. His eyes were straining and his fingers were digging into Charles' arms with an unnatural strength.

"You're fallible, I understand that now. But you're also stronger than your strife. You've overcome your grief before and you can do it again! I believe in the Templar cause, Master Kenway, but more than that, I believe in you," Charles pushed again. "I can forgive your inadequacies; I can learn to accept you as the human that you are! But not like this! You are a better man than this."

Again, Haytham winced and the strange glow finally reached his eyes. They shined a bright, vibrant blue that made a shiver of fear shoot down Charles' spine. The whispers were louder. They escalated into a cacophony of wind and screams and the promise of knives digging into his spine and blood draining from his gut like a pig. They swore agony and ruination upon Charles, screeching and searing through his mind like a hot iron, like a club smashing his brain into squishy pink and gray bits. His rage fell, shattered apart by the otherworldly shrieks. He didn't have the right blood. The relic told him so—that he didn't have the correct sort of blood to fight back properly.

But what was the purpose of fighting Haytham's will at this point? Charles sighed and relaxed, willing to let the Grandmaster do with him as he wished. Ever since meeting Haytham Kenway, everything that Charles had accomplished, he had accomplished for Haytham and the Templars. And though he knew that Haytham could never love him the way that Charles did, he could remain at a distance, at arm's length to support his dear friend and unrequited lover. After all, just because they slept together didn't mean that they could work as a cohesive domestic unit.

Haytham's will was a rush stronger than any tide, and Charles would happily drown in it—but only so long as Haytham held up his morals. As soon as those were disregarded, then Charles knew that he couldn't allow anyone else to suffer the tides. If Haytham strayed from the path of righteousness, then it was only fitting that Charles be the one to end him, should he get the chance.

"Ch-Charrrrrrlessss…" Haytham growled abnormally.

The younger Templar sucked in a breath, ready for either death or violation.

Instead, Haytham shouted—he roared—as he ripped the spinning artifacts out of the air. He tore the small marble from the center of the amulet and threw it across the room. The lights on the wall immediately died and Haytham crumpled bonelessly to the floor. His breathing was more ragged than any battle.

Charles remembered how to breathe.

"Get it away from me, Charles! Take it away! Far, far away!" Haytham begged, his voice rough and dry and panicked. His eyes slowly lost their unearthly glow and faded to a bloodshot gray. He held the amulet to his chest, but warily eyed the marble slowly rolling back towards him.

Charles scrambled upright, his legs going numb and weak, and stumbled to the inert marble. His Grandmaster gave him an order and he was obliged to obey. He WANTED to obey, especially this time. He stooped and picked it up with his handkerchief. The thing pulled against him weakly, as if trying to still move towards the amulet in Haytham's hand, but Charles would not allow it. He tied his handkerchief around it and held it firm in the palm of his hand.

"Sir, don't leave until I return. I'm going to dispose of this monstrosity," Charles breathed. Haytham only nodded, eyeing the folded handkerchief cautiously.

Charles didn't waste another second. He fled the plantation house and mounted his horse. The thing whinnied in panic, as if sensing the danger in the handkerchief, but Charles managed to urge her into a sprint towards the nearest port. The horse didn't argue and in nearly record time, Charles arrived just as a merchant's ship was about to depart.

The thing in his hand called to him without words. It begged him not to go; it pleaded for him to reunite it again with the amulet. The words and feelings made Charles' hands falter. He almost steered his horse back to his own plantation. But he didn't want what the marble promised him. Although Charles wanted a new world, he wanted one where he could remain by his Grandmaster's side. That wasn't something that the marble could promise.

The marble swore to return to him.

But Charles ignored the threat. He was too angry to obey, too rebellious to concede. He offered a hefty sum to the ship captain to gaze among some of the cargo under the pretense of purchasing something before it set sail. He paid more than he ought to have for a crate full of furs, but it was worth it. Charles had slipped the marble and handkerchief into the other cargo, wedged between the bundles so that it wouldn't be able to even begin a return trip to the colonies until the crates were unpacked. And those furs were being sent first to Europe, and then to Asia along the Merchant's Trail. The marble would be halfway around the world before it could begin to return of its own volition.

He did it. It was gone.

Feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest, Charles returned to Haytham's home. He was weary, more so than he should've been, but he was compelled to continue on. He had to know how Haytham was faring. He had to make certain that his Grandmaster was alright.

When he arrived, Haytham was asleep and the amulet was lifeless on his nightstand. Charles entered as quietly as he could, surprised already that his superior had yet to wake. The artifact must have taken more out of him than he thought.

"Master Kenway?" Charles prompted as he stood just out of arm's reach should Haytham wake up swinging. "Haytham?"

The Grandmaster frowned and stirred. He cracked a bleary eye open and regarded Charles with a drowsy grimace. "Is it done?" he slowly sat up, wincing and stiff as a board.

Charles nodded. "Yes. The artifact is heading across the ocean as we speak."

Haytham swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was still in his day clothes, having not bothered to undress before crashing. He rubbed his temples. "…Good."

"Sir…I…" Charles shifted uncomfortably. Haytham was just a man. He wasn't a demigod or a messiah or a savior. He was only a man. While part of Charles was disappointed by that revelation, he couldn't help the inspiration it sparked in his chest. Haytham had still been strong enough to ward off the Amulet's power even after Charles succumbed. There was hope for humanity yet. "Thank you for making such a difficult decision, Master Kenway."

Haytham snorted and kept his eyes to the floor. After a moment, Charles turned to leave and Haytham rose to stop him. "Charles, wait," he started, still finding the wall far more interesting than his fellow Templar's face. "I…I'm sorry for such poor behavior. I have no excuses, I just… I'm sorry. But thank you for being there, for believing in me."

Charles beamed, relief and admiration filling his chest once more. Haytham was his Grandmaster. Haytham was his grand Master. "You're welcome."

* * *

**September 16, 1781**

Things changed between them once again. But this time, it was for the best.

Haytham knew that Charles loved him. They never said it, they never would dare to utter such words, but they knew it. Did Haytham love Charles as well? He didn't know. He relied on Charles more than ever. He trusted his dear friend with his body and facets of his mind. He knew that he would save Charles however he could.

"I won't allow him to kill you," Haytham said. He knew that it might be impossible once the Assassin arrived at Fort George, but he liked to believe that he could win this encounter. Though how could he win? Victory would be at the cost of his son's life. But if he was defeated… Haytham didn't have the time to consider such an option.

They had fought so hard for so long. Haytham was tired of the battles. He was tired of second guessing his motives ever since that night Charles saved him from the amulet. While he still believed that the world would be better off under Templar control, he couldn't deny the doubt that plagued him. The amulet had shown him many things, and knowledge like that was something that could never be forgotten.

Charles huffed a harsh laugh despite his fear. "And how will you manage to kill him? He's obsessed and driven unlike any predator I've ever seen. We need to run! We need to get out of here before he realizes that we've gone! We can get a head start, hope that bombarding the fort will kill him before he gets to us first."

"He won't stop, not until either he's dead or us," Haytham gazed wearily out of the window of his room. This would be the end of it, one way or another. Perhaps after this day, he could finally rest in peace. But poor Charles. Should Haytham fall, he knew that that his friend would be stricken with grief. He only hoped that Charles wouldn't become a monster over it.

Haytham removed the amulet from around his neck. The fear it instilled was not forgotten, but he had a newfound respect for the artifact. It was dangerous and powerful. They couldn't allow anyone else to suffer because of it. Charles knew the dangers that lie in wait. Although Haytham didn't want such a burden for his friend, he knew that he was still the next best candidate for the amulet.

"I won't take it!" Charles jerked his hand away as if the relic was damned. And for all they knew, it was. Ziio had tried to warn him that it was cursed. He hadn't listened.

"You need to keep it safe. The world depends on the amulet being in the right hands," Haytham urged.

"Then you keep it! It's right in your hands and yours alone!" Charles countered.

Haytham shook his head. "Please help me one more time, my friend. Should I fall in battle, I cannot let this pass to the Assassins. It's too dangerous."

"You won't die…will you?" Charles asked, finally taking the amulet with a grimace and looping it around his neck. He was afraid of it, and rightfully so. "I can't lose you." The confession was unnaturally soft and shaky with terror considering Charles' usual temperament.

"We can't afford to run, Charles. The Father of Understanding will guide us."

The Templar knew Haytham's words were true. Emotions were chaotic and unreliable in large doses, and acting upon the rampant fear coursing through his veins went against their code. They needed to bring order, and to do that, they must control themselves. Charles nodded.

Haytham thought to lie, he really did. But all that came to mind was Holden's last words to him. He smiled bitterly and inclined his forehead against Charles'. "Don't you worry, Charles. Everything is going to be alright."

Haytham pressed a chaste, comforting kiss to his friend's brow. "I won't allow him to kill you," he repeated.

"With all due respect, Haytham," Charles whispered. "Don't make promises that you can't keep."

And that was the last time Haytham saw Charles.

* * *

Haytham died that day.

Or at least, he expected to as soon as he felt Connor's blade slide into his neck and warm blood flowed down his arm and chest. His body was cold and tired and sleep sounded so promising.

Did he have regrets? Of course, even though his soliloquy might claim otherwise. He hoped that Connor was right. He hoped that the world would survive. He hoped that Charles was well, that he wouldn't cry or fall into the trap of despair. He didn't want his friend to hurt anymore.

Connor was giving him peace of death, but thanks to Charles, Haytham would die a man, not a monster.

How unfortunate that death would not claim him yet.

* * *

**Crimmy Comments:** Whoo, that was a long chapter! Well, that's it for this fic, guys! Thanks so much for sticking with it! I'll see you on Thursday with another update of Thicker Than Water!


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